LOL. Nay, if he smell nothing but papers, I care not for his dry foot-hunting,[199] nor shall I need to puff pepper in his nostrils; but see, he comes again. _Enter_ PRATE, _and, stumbling at his wife's bed, sees_ ALPHONSO'S _rich apparel lying thereon_. PRATE. I think the devil hath laid his horns in my way. MECH. Yes, and if you had wit, you might conjure him out of your wife's closet. [_Aside._ PRATE. _Sancte Benedicite_, what have we here? Hath the golden snake cast his skin upon our bed? Go to, wife; I smell, I smell! methinks your plain rug should not agree with this rich counter-point. LOL. Husband, either I have fitted you now, or else I shall never fit you, whilst I breathe. You oft have told me, that like those of your rank, Who both adorn their credits and themselves, Yea, even their causes with their costly clothes, Yourself in like sort would strive to imitate; And now my neighbour here hath brought this suit, Which if you please to buy, 'tis better cheap Than e'er 'twas made by full five thousand crowns. PRATE. Say'st thou me so, wench? a kiss for that, i' faith; 'Fore God, it is a delicate fine suit, Rich stuff, rare work, and of the newest fashion: Nay, if the senate's business were never so hasty, I will stay to try it on; come, help; Good wenches, help. So, there, there, there. [_The orator puts on_ ALPHONSO'S _apparel_. MECH. 'Sfoot, will the ox put on the lion's hide! He will, he will, 'tis more than excellent; So gild the tomb that holds but rottenness! Laughter, I fear, will burst me; look how he struts. O God, that ever man should look Upon this maumet,[200] and not laugh at him! [_Aside._ PRATE. Fit, fit, excellent fit, as though The body it was made for wore my mould. Wife, I will have it: we'll dispute no price. _Enter_ VELOURS. VEL. Master orator, the senate are set, and can despatch no causes through your absence; therefore they earnestly entreat your presence. PRATE. I come, I come; good friend, go, say I come. And, wife, see that You pay for this suit, whatsoe'er it cost. [_Exit_ PRATE. MECH. Not above making you cuckold: that's the most. LOL. What, is he gone? COL. He is. _Enter_ ALPHONSO _in his shirt_. LOL. Why, then, come forth, poor naked lord. ALPH. What, is he gone? May the devil and his horns both follow him! LOL. He is gone; but yet he hath discover'd your treason. ALPH. How? COL. Yes, and in revenge thereof hath vowed that in this naked sort as you are you shall do penance through the city for your sin of unchastity.