Measure for Measure

by William Shakespeare

DUKE.
Still thus, and thus; still worse!

LUCIO.
How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

POMPEY.
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 so. Ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd; an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

POMPEY.
Yes, faith, sir.

LUCIO.
Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell. Go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? Or how?

ELBOW.
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. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

POMPEY.
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 you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.—Bless you, friar.