_Ast._ I thank you, sir. In the mean time, if I may have your licence, I have a nephew, and one once my ward, For whose liberties and ransoms I would gladly Make composition. _Gonz._ They are, as I take it, Call'd Gasparo and Antonio. _Ast._ The same, sir. _Gonz._ For them, you must treat with these; but, for Bertoldo, He is mine own: if the king will ransom him, He pays down fifty thousand crowns; if not, He lives and dies my slave. _Ast._ Pray you, a word: [_Aside to_ GONZ. The king will rather thank you to detain him, Than give one crown to free him. _Gonz._ At his pleasure. I'll send the prisoners under guard: my business Calls me another way. [_Exit._ _Ast._ My service waits you. Now, gentlemen, for this ransom, since you are not To be brought lower, there is no evading; I'll be your paymaster. _Rod._ We desire no better. _Ast._ But not a word of what's agreed between us, Till I have school'd my gallants. _Jac._ I am dumb, sir. _Enter a Guard, with_ BERTOLDO, ANTONIO, _and_ GASPARO, _in irons_. _Bert._ And where removed now? hath the tyrant found out Worse usage for us? _Ant._ Worse it cannot be. My greyhound has fresh straw, and scraps, in his kennel; But we have neither. _Gasp._ Did I ever think To wear such garters on silk stockings? or That my too curious appetite, that turn'd At the sight of godwits, pheasant, partridge, quails, Larks, woodcocks, calver'd salmon[157], as coarse diet, Would leap at a mouldy crust? _Ant._ And go without it, So oft as I do? Oh! how have I jeer'd The city entertainment! A huge shoulder Of glorious fat ram-mutton, seconded With a pair of tame cats or conies, a crab-tart, With a worthy loin of veal, and valiant capon, Mortified to grow tender!--these I scorn'd, From their plentiful horn of abundance, though invited: But now I could carry my own stool to a tripe[158], And call their chitterlings charity, and bless the founder. _Bert._ O that I were no further sensible Of my miseries than you are! you, like beasts, Feel only stings of hunger, and complain not But when you're empty: but your narrow souls (If you have any) cannot comprehend How insupportable the torments are, Which a free and noble soul, made captive, suffers. Most miserable men!--and what am I, then, That envy you? Fetters, though made of gold, Express base thraldom; and all delicates Prepared by Median cooks for epicures, When not our own, are bitter: quilts fill'd high With gossamere and roses cannot yield The body soft repose, the mind kept waking With anguish and affliction. _Ast._ My good lord---- _Bert._ This is no time nor place for flattery, sir: Pray you, style me as I am, a wretch forsaken Of the world, as myself. _Ast._ I would it were In me to help you.