_B[a]rt._ Are ye so hot? I shall prepare ye Physick Will purge ye finely, neatly: you are too fiery, Think of your prayers, Sir, an you have not forgot 'em; Can ye flie i' th' air, or creep ye in at key-holes? I have a Gin will catch ye though you conjur'd: Take him to Guard to night, to strong and sure Guard; I'll back to th' Dutchess presently: no less sport serve ye, Than the Heir to a Dukedom? play at push-pin there Sir? It was well aim'd, but plague upon't, you shot short, And that will lose your game. _Sil._ I know the loss then. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Quarta._ _Enter_ Claudio _like a Merchant_. _Clau._ Now, in this habit may I safely see How my incensed friend carries my murther, Who little I imagin'd had been wrought To such a height of rage, and much I grieve now Mine own blind passion had so master'd me, I could not see his love, for sure he loves her, And on a nobler ground than I pretended. _Enter_ Penurio. It must be so, it is so; what _Penurio_, My shotten friend, what wind blew you? _Pen._ Faith 'tis true, Any strong wind will blow me like a Feather, I am all Air, nothing of earth within me, Nor have not had this month, but that good Dinner Your Worship gave me yesterday, that staies by me, And gives me ballast, else the Sun would draw me. _Cla._ But does my Mistriss speak still of me? _Pen._ Yes, Sir, And in her sleep, that makes my Master mad too, And turn and fart for anger. _Cla._ Art sure she saw me? _Pen._ She saw ye at a window. _Cla._ 'Tis most true, In such a place I saw a Gentlewoman, A young, sweet, handsome woman. _Pen._ That's she, that's she Sir. _Cla._ And well she view'd me, I view'd her. _Pen._ Still she Sir. _Cla._ At last she blush'd, and then look'd off. _Pen._ That blush, Sir, If you can read it truly-- _Cla._ But didst thou tell her, Or didst thou fool me, thou knew'st such a one? _Pen._ I told her, and I told her such a sweet tale-- _Cla._ But did she hear thee? _Pen._ With a thousand ears, Sir, And swallow'd what I said as greedily, As great-belly'd women do Cherries, stones and all Sir. _Cla._ Methinks she should not love thy Master? _Pen._ Hang him Pilcher, There's nothing loves him: his own Cat cannot endure him, She had better lye with a Bear, for he is so hairy, That a tame Warren of Fleas frisk round about him. _Cla._ And wilt thou work still? _Pen._ Like a Miner for ye. _Cla._ And get access. _Pen._ Or conjure you together, 'Tis her desire to meet: she is poyson'd with him, And till she take a sweet fresh air, that's you Sir. _Cla._ There's money for thee: thou art a precious Varlet Be fat, be fat, and blow thy Master backward.