Crest-maker.
All right, tell them to bring me the dried figs; ’tis always better than nothing.
Trygæus.
Take them away, be off with your crests and get you gone; they are moulting, they are losing all their hair; I would not give a single fig for them.
A Breastplate-maker.
Good gods, what am I going to do with this fine ten-minæ breast-plate, which is so splendidly made?
Trygæus.
Oh, you will lose nothing over it.
Breastplate-maker.
I will sell it you at cost price.
Trygæus.
’Twould be very useful as a night-stool . . .
Breastplate-maker.
Cease your insults, both to me and my wares.
Trygæus.
. . . if propped on three stones. Look, ’tis admirable.
Breastplate-maker.
But how can you wipe, idiot?
Trygæus.
I can pass one hand through here, and the other there, and so . . .
Breastplate-maker.
What! do you wipe with both hands?
