PAROLLES.
Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafew this letter; I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.
CLOWN.
Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strongly as thou speak’st of. I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s buttering. Pr’ythee, allow the wind.
PAROLLES.
Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir. I spake but by a metaphor.
CLOWN.
Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose, or against any man’s metaphor. Pr’ythee, get thee further.
PAROLLES.
Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
CLOWN.
Foh, pr’ythee stand away. A paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look here he comes himself.
Enter Lafew.
Here is a pur of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat, but not a musk-cat, that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.
[Exit.]
PAROLLES.
My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratch’d.