Elb.

His neck will come to your waste, a cord, Sir.

Clown.

I spy comfort; I cry bail: here's a gentleman, and a friend of mine.

Lucio.

How now, noble Pompey? what, at the wheels of Cæsar? art thou led in triumph? what, is there none of Pigmalion's images newly made woman to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket, and extracting it clutch'd? what reply? ha? what say'st thou to this tune, matter and method? is't not drown'd i'th' last rain? ha? what say'st thou, trot? is the world as it was, man? which is the way? is it sad and few words? or how? the trick of it?

Duke.

Still thus and thus; still worse?

Lucio.

How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? procures she still? ha?

Clown.

Troth Sir, she hath eaten up all the beef, and she is her self in the tub.

Lucio.

Why 'tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so. Ever your fresh whore, and your powder'd bawd, an unshunn'd consequence, it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

Clown.

Yes, faith Sir.

Lucio.

Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey: farewel: go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?

Elb.

For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

Lucio.

Well, then imprison him; if imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right. Bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd born. Farewel, good Pompey: commend me to the prison, Pompey; you will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

Clown.

I hope, Sir, your good worship will be my bail.

Lucio.

No indeed will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear; I will pray, Pompey, to encrease your bondage, if you take it not patiently: why, your mettle is the more: adieu, trusty Pompey. Bless you, Friar.

Duke.

And you.

Lucio.

Does Bridget paint still, Pompey? ha?

Elb.

Come your ways, Sir, come.

Clown.

You will not bail me then, Sir?

Lucio.

Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, Friar? what news?

Elb.

Come your ways, Sir, come.

Lucio.

Go to kennel, Pompey, go: