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I cannot do't without counters. Let me see; what am
I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound
of sugar, five pound of currants, rice,--what will
this sister of mine do with rice? But my father
hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it
on. She hath made me four and twenty nose-gays for
the shearers, three-man-song-men all, and very good
ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but
one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to
horn-pipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden
pies; mace; dates?--none, that's out of my note;
nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I
may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of
raisins o' the sun.
AUTOLYCUS:
O that ever I was born!
Clown:
I' the name of me--
AUTOLYCUS:
O, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags; and
then, death, death!
Clown:
Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay
on thee, rather than have these off.
AUTOLYCUS:
O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more
than the stripes I have received, which are mighty
ones and millions.
Clown:
Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a
great matter.
AUTOLYCUS:
I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel
ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon
me.
Clown:
What, by a horseman, or a footman?
AUTOLYCUS:
A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
Clown:
Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he
has left with thee: if this be a horseman's coat,
it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand,
I'll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.
AUTOLYCUS:
O, good sir, tenderly, O!
Clown:
Alas, poor soul!
AUTOLYCUS:
O, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my
shoulder-blade is out.
Clown:
How now! canst stand?
AUTOLYCUS:
Clown:
Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
AUTOLYCUS:
No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have
a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence,
unto whom I was going; I shall there have money, or
any thing I want: offer me no money, I pray you;
that kills my heart.
Clown:
What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
AUTOLYCUS:
A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with
troll-my-dames; I knew him once a servant of the
prince: I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his
virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.
Clown:
His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipped
out of the court: they cherish it to make it stay
there; and yet it will no more but abide.
AUTOLYCUS:
Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he
hath been since an ape-bearer; then a
process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a
motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's
wife within a mile where my land and living lies;