DUKE. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin, Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer. Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit. ELBOW. He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster. If he be a whoremonger and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand. DUKE. That we were all, as some would seem to be, Free from our faults, as faults from seeming, free! ELBOW. His neck will come to your waist—a cord, sir. Enter Lucio. POMPEY. 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 Caesar? Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply, ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is’t not drowned 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? POMPEY. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub. LUCIO. Why, ’tis good. It is the right of it. It must be so. Ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd; an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey? POMPEY. Yes, faith, sir. LUCIO. Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell. Go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? Or how? ELBOW. 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. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house. POMPEY. 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 increase 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? ELBOW. Come your ways, sir, come. POMPEY. You will not bail me then, sir? LUCIO. Then, Pompey, nor now.—What news abroad, friar? What news? ELBOW. Come your ways, sir, come. LUCIO. Go to kennel, Pompey, go. [_Exeunt Elbow, Pompey and Officers._] What news, friar, of the Duke? DUKE. I know none. Can you tell me of any? LUCIO. Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome. But where is he, think you? DUKE. I know not where, but wheresoever, I wish him well. LUCIO. It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence. He puts transgression to’t. DUKE. He does well in’t.