D’Ol. I know it, Jack, and as common too.
Rhod. Go to, you may cover; we have taken notice of your embroidered beaver.
D’Ol. Look you: by heaven thou ‘rt one of the maddest bitter slaves in Europe: I do but wonder how I made shift to love thee all this while.
Rhod. Go to, what might such a parcel-gilt cover be worth?
Mug. Perhaps more than the whole piece beside.
D’Ol. Good i’ faith, but bitter. Oh, you mad slaves, I think you had Satyrs to your sires, yet I must love you, I must take pleasure in you, and i’ faith tell me, how is’t? live I see you do, but how? but how, wits?
Rhod. Faith, as you see, like poor younger brothers.
D’Ol. By your wits?
Mug. Nay, not turned poets neither.
D’Ol. Good in sooth! but indeed to say truth, time was when the sons of the Muses had the privilege to live only by their wits, but times are altered, Monopolies are now called in, and wit’s become a free trade for all sorts to live by: lawyers live by wit, and they live worshipfully: soldiers live by wit, and they live honourably: panders live by wit, and they live honestly: in a word, there are but few trades but live by wit, only bawds and midwives live by women’s labours, as fools and fiddlers do by making mirth, pages and parasites by making legs, painters and players by making mouths and faces: ha, does’t well, wits?