making hereof. This is to certify you that as the

turtle true, when she hath lost her mate, sitteth

alone, so I, mourning for your absence, do walk

up and down Paul’s till one day I fell asleep and

lost my master’s pantofles. Ah, Mistress Susan,

abolish that paltry painter, cut him off by the

shins with a frowning look of your crabbed countenance,

and think upon Michael, who, drunk with

the dregs of your favour, will cleave as fast to your

love as a plaster of pitch to a galled horse-back.

Thus hoping you will let my passions penetrate, or

rather impetrate mercy of your meek hands, I end.

[33]

Arden. Why, you paltry knave,

Stand you here loitering, knowing my affairs,

What haste my business craves to send to Kent? 20

20

Franklin. Faith, friend Michael, this is very ill,

Knowing your master hath no more but you,

And do ye slack his business for your own?

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