I am not bid for love: they flatter me:

But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon

The prodigal Christian:

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—Jessica, my girl,

Look to my house:—I am right loath to go;

There is some ill a brewing towards my rest,

For I did dream of money-bags to night.

Lau. I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth expect your reproach.