AUTOLYCUS.
Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that’s the rogue that put me into this apparel.
CLOWN.
Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run.
AUTOLYCUS.
I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him.
CLOWN.
How do you now?
AUTOLYCUS.
Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.
CLOWN.
Shall I bring thee on the way?
AUTOLYCUS.
No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.
CLOWN.
Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.
AUTOLYCUS.
Prosper you, sweet sir!
[Exit Clown.]