There are my keys:--But wherefore should I go?
I am not bid for love: they flatter me:
But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian:[64]--Jessica, my girl,
Look to my house:--I am right loath to go;
There is some ill a brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags to night.

_Lau_. I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth expect your
reproach.

_Shy_. So do I his.

_Lau_. And they have conspired together,--I will not say, you shall see
a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a
bleeding[65] on Black Monday(B) last, at six o'clock i'the morning,
falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon.

_Shy_. What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife,[66]
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street,
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces:
But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements;
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
My sober house.--By Jacob's staff I swear,
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:
But I will go.--Go you before me, sirrah;
Say, I will come.

_Lau_. I will go before, Sir.--
Mistress, look out at window, for all this;
There will come a Christian by,
Will be worth a Jewess' eye.[67]

[_Exit_ LAUNCELOT.

_Shy_. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?

_Jes_. His words were, Farewell, mistress; nothing else.

_Shy_. The patch is kind enough;[68] but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild cat: drones hive not with me,
Therefore I part with him; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd purse.--Well, Jessica, go in;
Perhaps, I will return immediately;
Do as I bid you,
Shut doors after you: Fast bind, fast find;
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

[_Exit_.

_Jes_. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

[_Exit into house_.

_Enter_ GRATIANO _and_ SALARINO, _masqued_.

_Gra_. This is the pent-house, under which Lorenzo
Desir'd us to make stand.

_Sal_. His hour is almost past.

_Gra_. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.

_Sal_. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
To seal love's bonds new made, than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

_Gra_. That ever holds: