_Fra._ I have recover'd breath, I'll speak unto him presently, May it please your gracious Majesty to consider A poor mans case? _Ver._ What's your Will, Sir? _Lis._ You must accept, and read it. _Ter._ The Tailor will run mad upon my life for't. _Ped._ How he mumps and bridles: he will ne'r cut clothes again. _Ver._ And what's your grief? _Mon._ He speaks i' th' nose like his goose. _Fra._ I pray you read there; I am abus'd and frumpt, Sir, By a great man that may do ill by authority; Poor honest men are hang'd for doing less, Sir, My child is stolen, the Count _Otrante_ stole her; A pretty child she is, although I say it, A handsome Mother, he means to make a whore of her, A silken whore, his knaves have filch'd her from me; He keeps lewd knaves, that do him beastly offices: I kneel for Justice. Shall I have it Sir? _Enter King_ Philippo, _and Lords_. _Phil._ What Pageant's this? _Lis._ The King: Tailor, stand off, here ends your aparition: Miller, turn round, and there address your paper, There, there's the King indeed. _Fra._ May it please your Majesty. _Phil._ Why didst thou kneel to that fellow? _Fra._ In good faith, Sir, I thought he had been a King, he was so gallant: There's none here wears such gold. _Phil._ So foolishly, You have golden business sure; because I am homely Clad, in no glitt'ring suit, I am not look'd on: Ye fools that wear gay cloaths, love to [be] gap'd at, What are you better when your end calls on you? Will gold preserve ye from the grave? or jewels? Get golden Minds, and fling away your Trappings Unto your bodies, minister warm raiments, Wholsome and good; glitter within and spare not: Let my [C]ourt have rich souls, their suits I weigh not: And what are you that took such State upon ye? Are ye a Prince? _Lis._ The Prince of Tailors, Sir, We owe some money to him, and't like your Majesty. _Phil._ If it like him, would ye ow'd more, be modester, And you less saucy, Sir: and leave this place: Your Pressing-iron will make no perfect Courtier: Goe stitch at home, and cozen your poor neighbors, Show such another pride, I'll have ye whipt for't, And get worse clothes, these but proclaim your fellony. And what's your Paper? _Fra._ I beseech you read it. _Phil._ What's here? the Count _Otrante_ task'd for a base villany, For stealing of a maid? _Lord._ The Count _Otrante_? Is not the fellow mad, Sir?