The guardian, a comedie acted before Prince Charls, His Highness at Trinity-Colledg in Cambridge, upon the twelfth of March, 1641
Cowley, Abraham, 1618-1667.

Act 2. Scaen. 10.

To these, old Truman.
Bla.

What says old Priam to Achilles great?

Tru.

'Tis well, I'm glad to see you in you Priams; but for all your Priams, and your Killisses, what ha' you done with my Son?

Bla.

Thrice was thy Hector drawn about the walls.

Cutt.

Xanthus and Simois, with his pur∣ple gore.

Dog.

Alas, and welladay! we are stain'd all o're.

Om.

Ha, ha, ha.

Tru.

'Tis very well, excellent well, all's well that ends well; I say—I shall finde Law I hope. My Son Dick in prison, and old Dick laughed at here by Raggamuffins: 'Tis very excellent well; I thank you gen∣tlemen I thank you heartily.

Bla.

'Tis not so much worth i'faith Sir; what do you mean Sir? pray spare your courtesie, nay, I pray be covered Sir.

Tru.

It may be so, 'tis very likely Sir, an there be Law in Westminster—

Cutt.

—And what dost thou mean, old man?

Dog.

—And what dost thou mean, old man?

Cutt.

—If thou mean'st to live long, plump, lusty, and strong;

Dog.

—Then take of the cup and the Can.

Om.

Ha, ha, ha.

Tru.

Well, I'm made a laughing stock, it seems.

Bla.

And good Sir—

Tru

Yes, I am made the laughing stock; I shall take some other course, I hold you a groat. Rest ye merry Gentlemen, I pray be merry, very very merry.

Dog.

Nay, you shall stay and drink first.

Tru.
Shall I, Iacksauce?
Strikes off his hat.
Pray Sir, be you covered too.
Bla.

Come old Iethro, here's a cup of wine will stir thy brains again, they're mouldy now.

Tru.

I, you'd poyson me, wou'd you? 'tis ve∣ry well if a man may be suffered to poyson whom he pleases.

Breakes the glass.

Bla.

No, your good Son has got the art of poysoning.

Tru.

My Son? Thou liest. My Son?

Bla.

If ye be raging Lyon-mad, d'ye see that door? Be gone to your Son, and take some juice of Opium: Thou wants sleep, Iethro.

Trumn offers to go out, and turns back again.

Tru.

There's Law, Captain.

Bla

There is so; wou'd you'd go fetch it.

Tru.

Nay there's none it seems.

Bla.

True, there shall be no Law, so you'll be gone

Tru.

There shall be no Law, say you? I desire no more, 'tis very exceeding dainty. There shall be no Law; I desire no more, 'tis a kinde of petty Treason: You'll remember, Sir, that there shall be no Law: That's enough, I pray remember Sir: and so fare∣well. There shall be no Law.

Exit.
Bla.

This worm-eaten old fellow has spoil'd our sport. And what says my hour-glass now? Time was i'faith.

Cutt.

How do you feel your self?

Bla.

As hot as Hell. Come wee'l take our last farewel within; and farwel here all drinking. God send me a good journey, I say.

Dog.

Then briny tears come trickling down apace,

For loss of him—

Cutt.

And what?

Dog.

Nay, ye put me out.

Exeunt.