FAULKNER. And your lordship will, the barber shall give you a sample of my head: I am he in faith, my lord; I am ipse. MORE. Why, now thy face is like an honest man’s: Thou hast played well at this new cut, and won. FAULKNER. No, my lord; lost all that ever God sent me. MORE. God sent thee into the world as thou art now, With a short hair. How quickly are three years Run out of Newgate! FAULKNER. I think so, my lord; for there was but a hair’s length between my going thither and so long time. MORE. Because I see some grace in thee, go free.— Discharge him, fellows.—Farewell, Master Morris.— Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit; Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit. [Exit.] MORRIS. Did not I tell thee always of these locks? FAULKNER. And the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside should not pick them open. ’Sheart, if my hair stand not on end when I look for my face in a glass, I am a polecat. Here’s a lousy jest! but, if I notch not that rogue Tom barber, that makes me look thus like a Brownist, hang me! I’ll be worse to the nitticall knave than ten tooth drawings. Here’s a head, with a pox! MORRIS. What ails thou? art thou mad now? FAULKNER. Mad now! nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man, what can? I am deposed, my crown is taken from me. More had been better a scoured Moreditch than a notched me thus: does he begin sheepshearing with Jack Faulkner? MORRIS. Nay, and you feed this vein, sir, fare you well. FAULKNER. Why, farewell, frost. I’ll go hang myself out for the Poll Head. Make a Saracen of Jack? MORRIS. Thou desperate knave! for that I see the devil Wholly gets hold of thee— FAULKNER. The devil’s a damned rascal. MORRIS. I charge thee, wait on me no more; no more Call me thy master. FAULKNER. Why, then, a word, Master Morris. MORRIS. I’ll hear no words, sir; fare you well. FAULKNER. ’Sblood, farewell. MORRIS. Why dost thou follow me? FAULKNER. Because I’m an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then cast me off? must I condole? have the Fates played the fools? am I their cut? now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag and baggage? [Weeps.] MORRIS. You coxcomb! FAULKNER. Nay, you ha’ poached me; you ha’ given me a hair; it’s here, hear. MORRIS. Away, you kind ass! come, sir, dry your eyes: Keep you old place, and mend these fooleries. FAULKNER. I care not to be turned off, and ’twere a ladder, so it be in my humor, or the Fates beckon to me. Nay, pray, sir, if the Destinies spin me a fine thread, Faulkner flies another pitch; and to avoid the headache hereafter, before I’ll be a hairmonger, I’ll be a whoremonger. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. Chelsea. Ante-chamber in More’s House. [Enter a Messenger to More.] MESSENGER. My honorable lord, the Mayor of London, Accompanied with his lady and her train, Are coming hither, and are hard at hand, To feast with you: a servant’s come before, To tell your lordship of there near approach.