[Picks his pocket]
You ha' done me a charitable office. 
CLOWN: Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
AUTOLYCUS: No, good sweet Sir; no, I beseech you, sir. I have
a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto whom
I was going. I shall there have money, or any, think I want, Offer
me no money, I pray you, that kills my heart. 
CLOWN: What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
AUTOLYCUS: A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about
with troll-my-dames. I knew him once a servant of the Prince.
I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he
was certainly whipt out of the court. 
CLOWN: His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipt out
of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will
no more but abide.
AUTOLYCUS: Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well; he
hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server, a bailiff, 
then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married
a tinker's wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and,
having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only
in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.
CLOWN: Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig! He haunts wakes, 
fairs, and bear-baitings.
AUTOLYCUS: Very true, Sir; he, sir, he. That's the rogue that put
me into this apparel.
CLOWN: Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had
but looked big, and spit at him, he'ld have run. 
AUTOLYCUS: I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am
false of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him.
CLOWN: How do you now?
AUTOLYCUS: Sweet sir, much better than I was: I can stand and
walk. I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards 
CLOWN: Shall I bring thee on the way?
AUTOLYCUS: No, good-faced sir, no, sweet sir.
CLOWN: Then fare thee well, I must go buy spices for our
AUTOLYCUS: Prosper you, sweet sir! Your purse is not hot
enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your sheep-
shearing too. If I make not this cheat brine out another, and the
shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in
the book of virtue! 
Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.