_Lav._ _Uds so:_ my gold-wrought waistcoat and nightcap! Open my trunk: lay my richest suit on the top, my velvet slippers, cloth-of-gold gamashes:[423] where are my cloth-of-silver hose? lay them---- _Bid._ At pawn, sir. _Lav._ No, sir; I do not bid you lay them at pawn, sir. _Bid._ No, sir, you need not, for they are there already. _Lav._ _Mor du, garzone!_ Set my richest gloves, garters, hats, just in the way of their eyes. So let them in; observe me with all duteous respect: let them in. 23 _Enter_ QUADRATUS, LAMPATHO DORIA, _and_ SIMPLICIUS FABER. _Qua._ Phoebus, Phoebe, sun, moon, and seven stars, make thee the dilling[424] of fortune, my sweet Laverdure, my rich French blood. Ha, ye dear rogue, hast any pudding[425] tobacco? _Lam._ Good morrow, signor. _Sim._ Monsieur Laverdure, do you see that gentleman? He goes but in black satin, as you see, but, by Helicon! he hath a cloth of tissue wit. He breaks a jest; ha, he'll rail against the court till the gallants--O God! he is very nectar; if you but sip of his love, you were immortal. I must needs make you known to him; I'll induce your love with dear regard. Signior Lampatho, here is a French gentleman, Monsieur Laverdure, a traveller, a beloved of Heaven, courts your acquaintance. _Lam._ Sir, I protest[426] I not only take distinct notice of your dear rarities of exterior presence, but also I protest I am most vehemently enamour'd, and very passionately dote on your inward adornments and liabilities of spirit! I protest I shall be proud to do you most obsequious vassalage. 43 _Qua._ [_Aside._] Is not this rare, now? Now, by Gorgon's head, I gape, and am struck stiff in wonderment At sight of these strange beasts. Yon[427] chamlet[428] youth, Simplicius Faber, that hermaphrodite, _Party_[429] _per pale_, that bastard mongrel soul, Is nought but admiration and applause Of yon[430] Lampatho Doria, a fusty cask, 50 Devote to mouldy customs of hoary eld; Doth he but speak, "O tones of heaven itself!" Doth he once write, "O Jesu admirable!" Cries out Simplicius. Then Lampatho spits, And says, "faith 'tis good." But, O, to mark yon thing Sweat to unite acquaintance to his friend, Labour his praises, and endear his worth With titles all as formally trick'd forth As the cap of a dedicatory epistle. Then, sir, to view Lampatho: he protests, 60 Protests and vows such sudden heat of love, That O 'twere warmth enough of mirth to dry The stintless tears[431] of old Heraclitus,-- Make Niobe to laugh! _Lam._ I protest I shall be proud to give you proof I hold a most religious affiance with your love. _Lav._ Nay, gentle signior.