THE BEEFEATER. Well, sir, it is but four words. Are you a snapper-up
of such unconsidered trifles?

THE MAN. _[eagerly]_ Snapper-up of-- _[he gasps]_ Oh! Immortal
phrase! _[He writes it down]._ This man is a greater than I.

THE BEEFEATER. You have my lord Pembroke's trick, sir.

THE MAN. Like enough: he is my near friend. But what call you his
trick?

THE BEEFEATER. Making sonnets by moonlight. And to the same lady
too.

THE MAN. No!

THE BEEFEATER. Last night he stood here on your errand, and in your
shoes.

THE MAN. Thou, too, Brutus! And I called him friend!

THE BEEFEATER. Tis ever so, sir.

THE MAN. Tis ever so. Twas ever so. _[He turns away, overcome]._
Two Gentlemen of Verona! Judas! Judas!!

THE BEEFEATER. Is he so bad as that, sir?

THE MAN. _[recovering his charity and self-possession]_ Bad? Oh no.
Human, Master Warder, human. We call one another names when we are