Act III

Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,

And breath of life, I have no life to breathe

What thou hast said to me.

I must to England; you know that?

Alack,

I had forgot: ’tis so concluded on.

There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows,

Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,

They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way,

And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;

For ’tis the sport to have the enginer

Hoist with his own petar: and’t shall go hard

But I will delve one yard below their mines,

And blow them at the moon: O, ’tis most sweet,

When in one line two crafts directly meet.

This man shall set me packing:

I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room.

Mother, good night. Indeed this counsellor

Is now most still, most secret and most grave,

Who was in life a foolish prating knave.

Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.

Good night, mother.