BOULT.
Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market?
BAWD.
What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden.
PANDAR.
Thou sayest true; they’re too unwholesome, o’ conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage.
BOULT.
Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I’ll go search the market.
[Exit.]
PANDAR.
Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over.
BAWD.
Why to give over, I pray you? Is it a shame to get when we are old?
PANDAR.
O, our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, ’twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over.
BAWD.
Come, others sorts offend as well as we.
PANDAR.
As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it’s no calling. But here comes Boult.