BUCK. Good, sir. And the conveyance is ready drawn in this box, if he be ready to sign and seal.
SIR SAMP. Ready, body o’ me? He must be ready. His sham-sickness shan’t excuse him. Oh, here’s his scoundrel. Sirrah, where’s your master?
JERE. Ah sir, he’s quite gone.
SIR SAMP. Gone! What, he is not dead?
JERE. No, sir, not dead.
SIR SAMP. What, is he gone out of town, run away, ha? has he tricked me? Speak, varlet.
JERE. No, no, sir, he’s safe enough, sir, an he were but as sound, poor gentleman. He is indeed here, sir, and not here, sir.
SIR SAMP. Hey day, rascal, do you banter me? Sirrah, d’ye banter me? Speak, sirrah, where is he? for I will find him.
JERE. Would you could, sir, for he has lost himself. Indeed, sir, I have a’most broke my heart about him—I can’t refrain tears when I think of him, sir: I’m as melancholy for him as a passing-bell, sir, or a horse in a pound.
SIR SAMP. A pox confound your similitudes, sir. Speak to be understood, and tell me in plain terms what the matter is with him, or I’ll crack your fool’s skull.