Speeches (Lines) for Abhorson in "Measure for Measure"

Provost. What, ho! Abhorson! Where's Abhorson, there?

Abhorson. Do you call, sir?

Provost. Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in
your execution. If you think it meet, compound with
him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if
not, use him for the present and dismiss him. He
cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd.

Abhorson. A bawd, sir? fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery.

Pompey. Pray, sir, by your good favour,--for surely, sir, a
good favour you have, but that you have a hanging
look,--do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?

Abhorson. Ay, sir; a mystery

Pompey. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and
your whores, sir, being members of my occupation,
using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery:
but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I
should be hanged, I cannot imagine.

Abhorson. Sir, it is a mystery.

Pompey. Proof?

Abhorson. Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be
too little for your thief, your true man thinks it
big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your
thief thinks it little enough: so every true man's
apparel fits your thief.

Provost. You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe
to-morrow four o'clock.

Abhorson. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.

Pompey. I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house
of profession: one would think it were Mistress
Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old
customers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in
for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger,
ninescore and seventeen pounds; of which he made
five marks, ready money: marry, then ginger was not
much in request, for the old women were all dead.
Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of
Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of
peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a
beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young
Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master
Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young
Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master
Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shooty the
great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed
Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in
our trade, and are now 'for the Lord's sake.'

Abhorson. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.

Pompey. Master Barnardine! you must rise and be hanged.
Master Barnardine!

Abhorson. What, ho, Barnardine!

Barnardine. [Within] Away, you rogue, away! I am sleepy.

Abhorson. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.

Pompey. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are
executed, and sleep afterwards.

Abhorson. Go in to him, and fetch him out.

Pompey. He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle.

Abhorson. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?

Barnardine. How now, Abhorson? what's the news with you?

Abhorson. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your
prayers; for, look you, the warrant's come.

Pompey. O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night,
and is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the
sounder all the next day.

Abhorson. Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do
we jest now, think you?