fear, sir, my shoulder blade
is out.

CLOWN.
How now! canst stand?

AUTOLYCUS.
Softly, dear sir! [Picks his pocket.] good sir, softly; you ha'
done me a charitable office.

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 anything 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; and, having
flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue:
some call him Autolycus.

CLOWN.
Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs,
and bear-baitings.

AUTOLYCUS.
Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into
this apparel.

CLOWN.
Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia; if you had but looked
big and spit at him, he'd have run.

AUTOLYCUS.
I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart
that way; and that he knew, I warrant him.

CLOWN.
How do you now?

AUTOLYCUS.
Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk: I will
even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman's.

CLOWN.
Shall I bring thee on the way?

AUTOLYCUS.
No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.

CLOWN.
Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

AUTOLYCUS.
Prosper you, sweet sir!

[Exit CLOWN.]

Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with
you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring
out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled,
and my name put in the book of virtue!

[Sings.]

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile