[From our faults, as faults from seeming], free!
Elb. His neck will come to your [waist],—a cord, sir.
Pom. I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here’s a gentleman and a friend of mine.
Enter Lucio.
40 Lucio. How now, noble Pompey! What, at the [wheels] of Caesar? art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting [it] clutched? What reply, ha? What sayest thou to [this tune,] 45 [matter and method? Is’t not drowned i’ the last rain], ha? What sayest thou, [Trot]? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of it?
Duke. Still thus, and thus; still worse!
III. 2
50 Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?
Pom. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all [her] beef, and she is herself in the tub.
Lucio. Why, ’tis good; it is the right of it; it must be 55 so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?
Pom. Yes, faith, sir.