FROTH.
Ay, so I did indeed.
POMPEY.
Why, very well. I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you—
FROTH.
All this is true.
POMPEY.
Why, very well then—
ESCALUS.
Come, you are a tedious fool. To the purpose. What was done to Elbow’s wife that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her.
POMPEY.
Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.
ESCALUS.
No, sir, nor I mean it not.
POMPEY.
Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s leave. And I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir, a man of fourscore pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas—was’t not at Hallowmas, Master Froth?
FROTH.
All-hallond Eve.
POMPEY.
Why, very well. I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir—’twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not?