Fal.

I will not lend thee a penny.

Pist.

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

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, Nim; 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 mistress 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 gibbet for you: go, ^{9 note}a short knife and a throng, to your manour of Pickt-hatch; 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 mine honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear 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 ensconse your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lettice phrases, and ^{1 note}your bold-bearing oaths, under the shelter of your honour! you will not do it, you!

Pist.

I do relent; what wouldst thou more of man?

Rob.

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

Fal.

Let her approach.