upper; for I am so melancholy.

CAR. O, signior, where's your Resolution?

SOG. Resolution! hang him, rascal: O, Carlo, if you love me, do not
mention him.

CAR. Why, how so?

SOG. O, the arrantest crocodile that ever Christian was acquainted with.
By my gentry, I shall think the worse of tobacco while I live, for his
sake: I did think him to be as tall a man --

MACI. Nay, Buffone, the knight, the knight
[ASIDE TO CARLO.

CAR. 'Slud, he looks like an image carved out of box, full of knots; his
face is, for all the world, like a Dutch purse, with the mouth downward,
his beard the tassels; and he walks -- let me see -- as melancholy as one
o' the master's side in the Counter. -- Do you hear, sir Puntarvolo?

PUNT. Sir, I do entreat you, no more, but enjoin you to silence, as you
affect your peace.

CAR. Nay, but dear knight, understand here are none but friends, and such
as wish you well, I would have you do this now; flay me your dog presently
(but in any case keep the head) and stuff his skin well with straw, as you
see these dead monsters at Bartholomew fair.

PUNT. I shall be sudden, I tell you.

CAR. O, if you like not that, sir, get me somewhat a less dog, and clap
into the skin; here's a slave about the town here, a Jew, one Yohan: or a
fellow that makes perukes will glue it on artificially, it shall never be
discern'd; besides, 'twill be so much the warmer for the hound to travel
in, you know.

MACI. Sir Puntarvolo, death, can you be so patient!

CAR. Or thus, sir; you may have, as you come through Germany, a familiar
for little or nothing, shall turn itself into the shape of your dog, or any
thing, what you will, for certain hours -- [PUNTARVOLO STRIKES HIM] -- Ods
my life, knight, what do you mean? you'll offer no violence, will you?
hold, hold!

RE-ENTER GEORGE, WITH WAX, AND A LIGHTED CANDLE.
PUNT. 'Sdeath, you slave, you ban-dog, you!

CAR. As you love wit, stay the enraged knight, gentlemen.

PUNT. By my knighthood, he that stirs in his rescue, dies. -- Drawer, begone!
[EXIT GEORGE.

CAR. Murder, murder, murder!

PUNT. Ay, are you howling, you wolf? -- Gentlemen, as you tender your
lives, suffer no man to enter till my revenge be perfect. Sirrah, Buffone,
lie down; make no exclamations, but down; down, you cur, or I will make thy
blood flow on