CRI. This is a good beginning: How naturally the rogue dissembles it! With what a gentle garb and civil grace He speaks and looks! How cunningly Albumazar Hath for our purpose suited him in Barbary clothes! I'll try him further, sir; we heard You were drown'd; pray you, how 'scap'd you shipwreck? ANT. No sooner was I shipp'd for Barbary, But fair wind follow'd, and fair weather led us. When, enter'd in the straits of Gibraltar, The heavens, and seas, and earth conspir'd against us; The tempest tore our helm, and rent our tackles, Broke the mainmast, while all the sea about us Stood up in wat'ry mountains to o'erwhelm us, And struck's against a rock, splitting the vessel T' a thousand splinters. I, with two mariners, Swam to the coast, where by the barbarous Moors We were surpris'd, fetter'd, and sold for slaves. CRI. This tale th' astrologer penn'd, and he hath conn'd it. ANT. But by a gentleman of Italy, Whom I had known before---- PAN. No more; this taste Proves thou canst play the rest. For this fair story, My hand; I make thy ten pounds twenty marks, Thou look'st and speak'st so like Antonio. ANT. Whom should I look and speak like, but myself? CRI. Good still! PAN. But now, my honest Trincalo, Tell me where's all the plate, the gold, and jewels, That the astrologer, when he had transform'd thee, Committed to thy charge? are they safe-lock'd? ANT. I understand you not. PAN. The jewels, man; The plate and gold th' astrologer that chang'd thee Bad thee lay up. ANT. What plate? What gold? What jewels? What transformation? What astrologer? CRI. Leave off Antonio now, and speak like Trincalo. ANT. Leave off your jesting. It neither fits your place Nor age, Pandolfo, to scoff your ancient friend. I know not what you mean by gold and jewels, Nor by th' astrologer, nor Trincalo. CRI. Better and better still. Believe me, sir, He thinks himself Antonio, and ever shall be, And so possess your plate. Art thou not Trincalo, My master's farmer? ANT. I am Antonio, Your master's friend, if he teach you more manners. PAN. Humour of wiving's gone. Farewell, good Flavia. Three thousand pound must not be lost so slightly. Come, sir; we'll drag you to th' astrologer, And turn you to your ragged bark of yeomanry. ANT. To me these terms? PAN. Come, I'll not lose my plate.