Ha, ha, what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman!
I have sold all my trompery; not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallow’d and brought a benediction to the buyer; by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture, and what I saw, to my good use I rememb’red. My clown (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches’ song, that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words, which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears. You might have pinch’d a placket, it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have fil’d keys off that hung in chains. No hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the not hing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I pick’d and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with a whoobub against his daughter and the King’s son, and scar’d my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army.