LAUNCELOT.
Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing
without bidding.

[Enter JESSICA.]

JESSICA.
Call you? What is your will?

SHYLOCK.
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:
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. 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.

LAUNCELOT.
I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your
reproach.

SHYLOCK.
So do I his.

LAUNCELOT.
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 on Black Monday last at six o'clock