SOG. That fortune favours! how mean you that, friend?

MAC. I mean simply: that you are one that lives not by your wits.

SOG. By my wits! no sir, I scorn to live by my wits, I. I have better
means, I tell thee, than to take such base courses, as to live by my wits.
What, dost thou think I live by my wits?

MAC. Methinks, jester, you should not relish this well.

CAR. Ha! does he know me?

MAC. Though yours be the worst use a man can put his wit to, of thousands,
to prostitute it at every tavern and ordinary; yet, methinks, you should
have turn'd your broadside at this, and have been ready with an apology,
able to sink this hulk of ignorance into the bottom and depth of his
contempt.

CAR. Oh, 'tis Macilente! Signior, you are well encountered; how is it?
O, we must not regard what he says, man, a trout, a shallow fool, he has no
more brain than a butterfly, a mere stuft suit; he looks like a musty
bottle new wicker'd, his head's the cork, light, light! [ASIDE TO
MACILENTE.] -- I am glad to see you so well return'd, signior.

MAC. You are! gramercy, good Janus.

SOG. Is he one of your acquaintance? I love him the better for that.

CAR. Od's precious, come away, man, what do you mean? an you knew him as