Measure for Measure

by William Shakespeare

ABHORSON.
A bawd, sir? Fie upon him, he will discredit our mystery.

PROVOST.
Go to, sir; you weigh equally. A feather will turn the scale.

[Exit.]

POMPEY.
Pray, sir, by your good favour—for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look—do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?

ABHORSON.
Ay, sir, a mystery.

POMPEY.
Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery. But what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.

ABHORSON.
Sir, it is a mystery.

POMPEY.
Proof.

ABHORSON.
Every true man’s apparel fits your thief. If it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough. So every true man’s apparel fits your thief.

Enter Provost.