MAT. But observe the catastrophe now,
"And I in duty will exceed all other,
As you in beauty do excel love's mother."
LOR. JU. Well, I'll have him free of the brokers, for
he utters nothing but stolen remnants.
PROS. Nay, good critic, forbear.
LOR. JU. A pox on him, hang him, filching rogue, steal
from the dead? it's worse than sacrilege.
PROS. Sister, what have you here? verses? I pray you
let's see.
BIA. Do you let them go so lightly, sister?
HES. Yes, faith, when they come lightly.
BIA. Ay, but if your servant should hear you, he would
take it heavily.
HES. No matter, he is able to bear.
BIA. So are asses.
HES. So is he.
PROS. Signior Matheo, who made these verses? they are
excellent good.
MAT. O God, sir, it's your pleasure to say so, sir.
Faith, I made them extempore this morning.
PROS. How extempore?
MAT. Ay, would I might be damn'd else; ask Signior Bobadilla.
He saw me write them, at the -- (pox on it) the Mitre yonder.
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