Fal.

I will not lend thee a penny.

Pist.

Why then the world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open.—I will retort the sum in Equipage.^{8 note}

Fal.

Not a penny. I have been content, Sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you, and your couch-fellow, Nym; or else you had look'd through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damn'd in hell for swearing to gentlemen, my friends, you were good soldiers, and tall fellows. And when Mrs. Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took't upon mine honour, thou hadst it not.

Pist.

Didst thou not share? hadst thou not fifteen pence.

Fal.

Reason, you rogue, reason: think'st thou, I'll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibber for you.—Go.—A^{9 note} short knife and a throng—to your manor of ^{1 note}Pickt-hatch6Q0101.—Go.— You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue!—you stand upon your honour!—why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the term of my honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the rear of heaven on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you rogue will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your ^{2 note}red lettice phrases, and your^{3 note}

Pist.

I do relent: what wouldst thou more of man?

Rob.

Sir, here's a woman would speak with you.

Fal.

Let her approach.