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Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will
needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we
shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
O heavens! what stuff is here
POMPEY:
'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the
merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by
order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and
furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to signify, that
craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.
ELBOW:
Come your way, sir. 'Bless you, good father friar.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
And you, good brother father. What offence hath
this man made you, sir?
ELBOW:
Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we
take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found
upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have
sent to the deputy.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
Fie, sirrah! a bawd, a wicked bawd!
The evil that thou causest to be done,
That is thy means to live. Do thou but think
What 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back
From such a filthy vice: say to thyself,
From their abominable and beastly touches
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.
Canst thou believe thy living is a life,
So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.
POMPEY:
Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet,
sir, I would prove--
DUKE VINCENTIO:
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 VINCENTIO:
That we were all, as some would seem to be,
From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!
ELBOW:
His neck will come to your waist,--a cord, sir.
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 clutch'd? What reply, ha? What
sayest thou to this tune, matter and method? Is't
not drowned i' the last rain, ha? What sayest
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 VINCENTIO:
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?