Lucio. Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell: go, 60 say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?
Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd.
Lucio. Well, then, imprison him: if imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right: bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. 65 Commend me to the prison, Pompey: you will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.
Pom. I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.
Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your [bondage: if] 70 [you take it not patiently], why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey. ’Bless you, friar.
Duke. And you.
Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?
Elb. Come your ways, sir; come.
III. 2
75 Pom. You will not bail me, then, sir?
Lucio. Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar? what news?