Wit without money A comedie, at it hath beene presented with good applause at the private house in Drurie Lane, by her Majesties Servants. Written by Francis Beaumount, and Iohn Flecher. Gent.

Scaena 1.

Enter Franscisco, Vncle, and Lance.

Fran.

VVHy doe you deale thus with him tis unnobly.

Ʋnc.

Peace cosen peace, you are to tender of him, he must be dealt thus with, he must be cured thus, the violence of his disease Francisco, must not be jested with, tis growne infectious, and now strong corasives most cure him.

Lance.

Has had a stinger, has eaten off his Cloathes, the next his skinne comes.

Vnc.

And let it search him to the bones, tis better, twill make him feele it.

Lance.

Where be his noble friends now? will his fanta∣sticall opinions cloath him, or the learned Art of having no∣thing feede him.

Ʋnc.

It must needes greedely, for all his friends have flung him off, he is naked, and where to skinne himselfe agen, if I know, or can devise how he should get himselfe lodging, his spirit must be bowed, and now we have him, have him at that we hoped for.

Lance.

Next time we meete him cracking of Nuts, with halfe a clocke about him, for all meanes are cut off, or bor∣rowing sixe pence, to shew his bountie in the pottage Ordi∣dinary.

Fran.

Which way went he?

Lance.

Pox, Why should you aske after him, you have beene trim'd already, let him take his fortune, he spunne it

out himselfe, sir, theres no pitty.

Vnc.

Besides some good to you now from this miserie.

Fran.

I rise upon his ruines, fie, fie, Vncle, fie honest Lance, those Gentlemen were base people, that could so soone take fire to his destruction.

Vnc.

You are a foole, you are a foole, a young man.

Enter Ʋallentine.

Ʋal.

Morrow Vncle, morrow Francke sweete Francke, and how; and how dee, thinke now, how show matters; morrow Bandogge.

Vnc.

How?

Fran.

Is this man naked, forsaken of his friends.

Val.

Thar't hansome Francke, a pretty Gentleman, ifaith thou lookest well, and yet here may be those that looke as hansome.

Lan.

Sure he can conjure, and has the devill for his taylor.

Vnc.

New and rich, tis most impossible he should recover.

Lan.

Give him this lucke, and fling him into the Sea.

Ʋnc.

Tis not he, imagination cannot worke this miracle.

Ʋal.

Yes, yes, tis he, I will assure you Vncle, the very he, the he your wisdome plaid withall, I thanke you fort, neyed at his nakednes, and made his cold and poverty, your pastime; you see I live, and the best can doe no more Vncle, and though I have no state, I keepe the streetes still; and take my pleasure in the towne, like a poore Gentleman, weare clothes to keepe me warme, poore things they serve me, can make a show too if I list, yes Vncle, and ring a peale in my pockets, ding dong, Vncle, these are mad foolish wayes, but who can helpe um.

Ʋnc.

I am amazed.

Lan.

Ile sell my coppyhold, for since there are such excellent new nothings, why should I labour, is there no fairy haunts him, no rat, nor no old woman.

Ʋnc.

You are Vallentine.

Val.

I thinke so, I cannot tell, I have beene cald so, and some say christened, why doe you wonder at me, and swell, as if you had met a sarjeant fasting, did you ever know desert want, yare fooles, a little stoope, there may be to allay him, he would grow too ranke else, a small eclipse, to shaddow him, but out hee must breake, glowingly againe, and with a great luster, looke you Vncle, motion, and Majesty.

Vnc.

I am confounded.

Fran.

I am of his faith.

Ʋal.

Walke by his carelesse kinsman, and turne againe and walke, and looke thus Vncle, taking some one by the hand, he loves best, leave them to the mercy of the hog market, come Franke, Fortune is now my friend, let me instruct thee.

Fran.

Good morrow Vncle, I must needes goe with him.

Ʋal.

Flay me, and turne me out where none inhabits, with∣in two houres, I shall be thus againe, now wonder on, and laugh at your owne ignorance.

Ex. Vall. & Franck.

Ʋnc.

I doe beleeve him.

Lan.

So doe I, and heartily upon my conscience bury him starke naked, he would rise againe, within two houres im∣broidered: sow musterd seedes, and they cannot come up so thicke as his new sattens doe, and clothes of silver, theres no striving.

Ʋnc.

Let him play a while then, and lets search out what hand: —

Lan.

I there the game lyes.

Exeunt

Enter Fountaine, Bellamore and Harebraine.

Foun.

Come lets speake for our selves, we have lodg'd him sure enough, his nakednesse dare not peepe out to crosse us.

Bel.

We can have no admittance.

Hare.

Lets in boldly, and use our best arts, who she daines to favour, we are all content.

Foun.

Much good may doe her with him, no civill warres.

Bel.

By no meanes, now doe I wonder in what old tod Ivy hee lies whistling for meanes, nor clothes hee has none, nor none will trust him, we have made that side sure, teach him a new wooing.

Hare.

Say it is his Vncles spite.

Foun.

It is all one Gentlemen, 'tas rid us of a faire incum∣brance, and makes us looke about to our owne fortunes. Who are these.

Enter Isabell and Luce.

Isa.

Not see this man yet, well, I shall be wiser: but Luce didst ever know a woman melt so, she is finely hurt to hunt.

Luc.

Peace, the three suitors.

Isa.

I could so titter now and laugh, I was lost Luce, and I must love, I know not what; O Cupid, what pretty gins thou hast to halter woodcockes, and we must into the Countrey in all hast Luce.

Luce.

For heavens sake Mistris.

Isa.

Nay I have done, I must laugh though, but scholler, I shall teach you.

Foun.

Tis her sister.

Bell.

Save you Ladies.

Isa.

Faire met Gentlemen, you are visiting my sister, I assure my selfe.

Hare.

We would faine blesse our eyes.

Isa.

Behold and welcome, you would see her:

Foun.

Tis our businesse.

Isa.

You shall see her, and you shall talke with her.

Luce.

Shee will not see um, nor spend a word.

Isa.

Ile make her fret a thousand, nay now I have found the scab, I will so scratch her.

Luc.

She cannot endure um.

Isa.

She loves um but too dearely, come follow me, Ile bring you toth party Gentlemen, then make your owne conditions.

Luc.

She is sicke you know.

Isa.

Ile make her well, or kill her, and take no idle answer, you are fooles then, nor stand off for her state, sheele scorne you all then, but urge her still, and though she fret, still follow her, a widdow must be wonne so.

Bel.

Shee speakes bravely.

Isa.

I would faine have a brother in law, I love mens com∣pany, and if she call for dinner to avoide you, be sure you stay, follow her into her chamber, if she retire to pray, pray with her, and boldly, like honest lovers.

Luc.

This will kill her.

Foun.

You have showed us one way, do but lend the tother.

Isa.

I know you stand a thornes, come Ile dispatch you.

Luc.

If you live after this.

Isa.

I have lost my ayme.

Enter Vallentine and Franscisco.

Fra.

Did you not see um since.

Val.

No hang um, hang um.

Fra.

Nor will you not be seene by um:

Ʋal.

Let um a∣lone Francke, Ile make um their owne justice, and a jerker.

Fra.

Such base discurteous dogge whelpes.

Ʋal.

I shall dogge um, and double dog um, ere I have done.

Fran.

Will you goe with me, for I would faine finde out this peece of bountie it was the widdows man, that I am cer∣taine of.

Ʋal.

To what end would you goe.

Fran.

To give thankes sir.

Val.

Hang giving thankes, hast not thou parts deserves it, it includes to a further will to be beholding, beggers can doe no more at doores, if you will goe there lies your way.

Fran.

I hope you will goe.

Val.

No not in ceremony, and to a woman, with mine owne father, were hee living Francke; I would toth Court with beares first, if it be that wench, I thinke it is, for tothers wiser, I would not be so lookt upon, and laught at, so made a ladder for her wit, to climbe upon, for tis the tartest wit in Christendome, I know her well Francke, and have buckled with her, so lickt, and stroakt, fleard upon, and flouted, and showne to Chambermaides, like a strange beast, she had pur∣chased with her penny.

Fran.

You are a strange man, but doe you thinke it was a woman

Ʋal.

Theres no doubt out, who can be there to doe it else, besides the manner of the circumstances.

Fran.

Then such courtesies, who ever does um sir, saving your owne wisdome, must be more lookt into, and better an∣swerd, then with deserving slights, or what we ought to have conferd upon us, men may starve else, meanes are not gotton now, with crying out I am a gallant fellow, a good souldier, a man of learning, or fit to be employed, immediate blessings, cease like miracles, and we must grow, by second meanes, I pray goe with me, even as you love me sir.

Val.

I will come to thee, but Francke, I will not stay to heare your fopperies, dispatch those ere I come.

Fran.

You will not faile me.

Val.

Some two houres hence expect me.

Fran.

I thanke you, and will looke for you.

Exeunt

Enter Widdow, Shorthose, and Roger.

Wid.

Who let me in these puppies, you blinde rascals, you drunken knaves severall.

Short.

Yes forsooth, Ile let um in presently,—gentlemen,

Wid.

Spercious you blowne pudding, you bawling rogue.

Short.

I bawle as loud as I can, would you have me fetch um upon my backe.

Wid.

Get um out rascall, out with um, out, I sweate to have um neare me.

Short.

I should sweate more to carry um out.

Rog.

They are Gentlemen Madam:

Shor.

Shall we get um intoth butterie, and make um drinke.

Wid

Doe any thing, so I be eased.

Enter Isabel, Fount, Bella, Hare.

Isa.

Now too her sir, feare nothing.

Rog.

Slip a side boy, I know shee loves um, howsoere shee carries it, and has invited um, my young Mistris told me so.

Short.

Away to tables then.

Exeunt.

Isa.

I shall burst with the sport ont.

Fount.

You are too curious Madam, too full of preparation, we expect it not.

Bella.

Me thinkes the house is hansome, every place decent, what neede you be so vext.

Hare.

We are no strangers.

Foun,

What though we come ere you expected us, doe not we know your entertainements Madam are free, and full at all times.

Wid.

You are merry Gentlemen.

Ball.

We come to be merry Madam, and very merry, mē live to laugh heartily, and now and then Lady a little of our old plea.

Wid.

I am busie, and very busie too, will none deliver me.

Hare.

There is a time for all, you may be busie, but when your friends come, you have as much power Madam.

Wid.

This is a tedious torment.

Foun.

How hansomely this title peece of anger shewes up∣on her, well Madam well, you know not how to grace your selfe.

Bella.

Nay every thing she does breedes a new sweetnesse.

Wid.

I must goe up, I must goe up, I have a businesse waites upon me, some wine for the Gentlemen.

Hare.

Nay, weele goe with you, we never saw your cham∣bers yet.

Jsa.

Hold there boyes.

Wid.

Say I goe to my prayers.

Foun.

Weele pray with you, and helpe your meditations.

Wid,

This is boystrous, or say I goe to sleepe, will you goe te sleepe with me.

Bel.

So suddenly before meate will bee dangerous, wee know your dinners ready Lady, you will not sleepe.

Wid.

Give me my Coach, I will take the aire,

Hare.

Weele waite on you, and then your meate after a quickned stomacke.

Wid.

Let it alone, and call my steward to mee, and bid him

bring his recknings into the Orchard, these unmannerly rude puppies—

Exit widdow.

Foun.

Weele walke after you and view the pleasure of the place.

Isa.

Let her not rest, for if you give her breath, sheele scorne and floute you, seeme how she will, this is the way to winne her, be bold and prosper.

Bella.

Nay if we doe not tire her.—

Exeunt.

Isa.

Ile teach you to worme me good Lady sister, and peepe into my privacies, to suspect me, Ile torture you, with that you hate most daintily, and when I have done that, laugh at that you love most.

Enter Luce.

Luc.

What have you done, shee chafes and fumes outragi∣ously, and still they persecute her.

Isa.

Long may they doe so, Ile teach her to declaime against my pitties, why is shee not gone out oth' towne, but gives occasion for men to run mad after her.

Luc.

I shall be hanged.

Isa.

This in me had beene high treason, three at a time, and private in her Orchard, I hope sheele cast her reckonings right now.

Enter Widdow.

Wid.

Well, I shall finde who brought um.

Isa.

Ha, ha, ha.

Wid.

Why doe you laugh sister, I feare me tis your tricke, twas neatly done of you, and well becomes your pleasure.

Isa.

What have you done with um.

Wid.

Lockt um ith Orchard, there Ile make um dance and caper too, before they get their liberty, unmannerly rude pup∣pies.

Isa.

They are somewhat saucy, but yet Ile let um out, and once more hound um, why were they not beaten out.

Wid.

I was about it, but because they came as suiters.

Isa.

Why did you not answer um.

Wid.

They are so impudent they will receive none: More yet, how came these in.

Enter Franscisco and Lance.

Lan.

At the doore Madam.

Isa.

It is that face.

Luc.

This is the Gentleman.

Wid.

Shee sent the money too.

Luc.

The same.

Isa.

Ile leave you, they have some businesse.

Wid.

Nay you shall stay sister, they are strangers both to me: how her face alters.

Isa.

I am sorry he comes now.

Wid.

I am glad he is here now though. who would you speake with Gentlemen?

Lan.

You Lady, or your faire sister there, heres a Gentleman, that has received a benefit.

Wid.

From whom sir.

Lan.

From one of you, as he supposes Madam, your man delivered it.

Wid.

I pray goe forward.

Lan.

And of so great a goodnesse, that he dares not, with∣out the tender of his thankes and service, passe by the house.

Wid.

Which is the Gentleman?

Lan.

This Madam.

Wid.

Whats your name Sir?

Fran.

They that know me call me Franscisco Lady, one not so proud to scorne, so timely a benefit, nor so wretched, to hide a gratitude.

Wid.

It is well bestowed then.

Fran.

Your faire selfe, or your sister as it seemes, for what desert I dare not know, unlesse a hansome subject for your charities, or aptnesse in your noble wils to doe it, have show∣red upon my wants, a timely bounty, which makes me rich in thankes, my best inheritance.

Wid.

I am sorry twas not mine, this is the Gentlewoman-fie doe not blush, goe roundly to the matter, the man is a pret∣tie man.

Isa.

You have three fine ones.

Fran.

Then to you deare Lady.

Isa.

I pray no more Sir, if I may perswade you, your onely aptnesse to doe this is recompence, and more then I expected.

Fran.

But good Lady.

Isa.

And for me further to be acquainted with it, besides the imputation of vaine glory, were greedie thankings of my selfe, I did it not to be more affected to; I did it, and if it hap∣pened where I thought it fitted, I have my end, more to en∣quire is curious in either of us, more then that suspicious:

Fran.

But gentle Ladie, twill be necessary.

Isa.

About the right way nothing, doe not fright it, being

to pious use and tender sighted, with the blown face of com∣plements, it blasts it had you not come at all, but thought thankes; it had beene too much, twas not to see your person.

Wid.

A brave dissembling rogue, and how she carries it.

Isa.

Though I beleeve few handsomer; or heare you, though I affect a good tongue well; or try you, though my yeares desire a friend, that I relieved you.

Wid.

A plaguie cunning queane.

Isa.

For so I carryed it, my ends too glorious in mine eies, and bartred the goodnesse I propounded with opinion.

Wid.

Feare her not Sir.

Isa.

You cannot catch me sister.

Fran.

Will you both teach, and tie my tongue up Lady?

Isa.

Let it suffice you have it, it was never mine, whilst good men wanted it.

Lan.

This is a Saint sure.

Isa.

And if you be not such a one restore it.

Fran.

To commend my selfe were more officious, then you thinke my thankes are, to doubt I may be worth your gift a treason, both to mine owne good, and understanding, I know my mind cleare, and though modesty tels me, he that intreates intrudes, yet I must thinke something, and of some season, met with your better taste, this had not beene else.

Wid.

What ward for that Wench.

Isa.

Alas it never touched me.

Fran,

Well gentle Ladie, yours is the first money I ever tooke upon a forced ill manners.

Isa.

The last of me, if ever you use other.

Fran.

How may I doe, and your way to be thought a grate∣full taker.

Isa.

Spend it and say nothing, your modestie may deserve more.

Wid.

O sister, will you barre thankefullnesse?

Isa.

Dogges dance for meate, would you have men doe worse, for they can speake, cry out like Woodmongers, good deeds by the hundreds, I did it that my best friend should not know it, wine and vaine glory does as much as I else, if you will force my merit, against my meaning, use it in well bestowing it, in showing it came to be a benefit, and was so; and not examining a woman did it, or to what end, in not be∣leeving

sometimes your selfe, when drinke and stirring con∣versation may ripen strange perswasions.

Fran.

Gentle Lady, J were a base receiver of a curtesie, and you a worse disposer, were my nature unfurnished of these foresights, Ladies honours were ever in my thoughts, unspotted crimes, their good deedes holy temples, where the incense burnes not, to common eyes your feares are vertuous, and so I shall preserve um.

Isa.

Keepe but this way, and from this place to tell me so, you have paid me; and so J wish you see all fortune.

Ex.

Wid.

feare not the woman will be thanked, I doe not doubt it, are you so crafty, carry it so precisely, this is to wake my feares, or to abuse mee, I shall looke narrowly, despaire not Gentlemen, there is an houre to catch a woman in, if you be wise, so, I must leave you too; now will I goe laugh at my suitors.

Exit.

Lan.

Sir what courage.

Fran.

This woman is a founder, and scites statutes to all her benefits.

Lan.

I never knew yet, so few yeares and so cunning, yet beleeve me she has an itch, but how to make her confesse it, for it is a crafty tit, and playes about you, will not bite home, she would faine, but she dares not; carry your selfe but so dis∣creetely Sir, that want or wantonnesse seeme not to search you, and you shall see her open.

Fran.

I do love her, and were I rich, would give two thou∣sand pound to wed her wit but one houre, oh tis a dragon, and such a spritely way of pleasure, ha Lance.

Lan.

Your ha Lance broken once, you would cry, ho, ho, Lance.

Fran.

Some leaden landed rogue, will have this Wench now, when alls done, some such youth will carry her, and weare her greasie out like stuffe, some dunce that knowes no more but Markets, and admires nothing but a long charge at sises: O the fortunes.

Enter Isabel and Luce.

Lan.

Comfort your selfe.

Luc.

They are here yet, and a love too, boldly upont, Nay Mistresse, I still told you, how 'would finde your trust, this

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tis to venture your charitie upon a boy.

Lan.

Now, whats the matter? stand fast, and like your selfe.

Isa.

Prethee no more wench.

Luce.

What was his want to you.

Isa.

Tis true.

Luce.

Or misery, or say he had beene ith' Cage, was there no mercy to looke abroad but yours.

Isa.

I am paid for fooling.

Luce.

Must every slight companion that can purchase a shew of povertie and beggerly planet fall under your com∣passion.

Lance.

Heres a new matter.

Luce.

Nay you are served but too well, here he staies yet, yet as I live.

Fran.

How her face alters on me?

Luce.

Out of a confidence I hope.

Isa.

I am glad ont.

Fran.

How doe you gentle Lady?

Isa.

Much ashamed sir, but first stand further off me y'are infectious to finde such vanitie, nay almost impudence where I beleeve a worth: is this your thankes, the gratitude you were so mad to make me, your trimme councell Gentlemen?

Lanc.

What Lady?

Isa.

Take your device agen, it will not serve sir, the wo∣man will not bite, you are finely cosened, droppe it no more for shame.

Luce.

Doe you thinke you are here sir amongst your wast∣coateers. your base Wenches that scratch at such occasions; you are deluded; This is a Gentlewoman of a noble house, borne to a better fame than you can build her, and eyes above your pitch.

Fran.

I doe acknowledge—

Isa.

Then I beseech you sir, what could see, speake boldly, and speake truely, shame the devill, in my behaviour of such easinesse that you durst venture to doe this.

Fran.

You amaze me, this Ring is none of mine, nor did I droppe it.

Luce.

I saw you droppe it sir.

Isa.

I tooke it up too, still looking when your modesty should misse it, why what a childish part was this?

Fran.

J vow.

Isa.

Vow me no vowes, he that dares doe this, has bred himselfe to boldnesse, to forsweare too; there take your gu∣gaw you are too much pampered, and I repent my part, as

you grow older grow wiser if you can, and so farewell sir.

Exit Isabella and Luce.

Lan.

Grow wiser if you can, shee has put it to you, tis a rich Ring, did you droppe it?

Fran.

Never, nere see it afore Lance.

Lan.

Thereby hangs a taile then: what slight shee makes to catch her selfe, looke up sir, you cannot lose her if you would, how daintily she flies upon the lure, and cunningly she makes her stoppes, whistle and she'le come to you.

Fran.

I would I were so happie.

Lan.

Maids are clockes, the greatest wheele they show, goes slowest to us, and makes hang on tedious hopes the les∣ser, which are concealed being often oyl'd with wishes flee like desires, and never leave that motion, till the tongue strikes; she is flesh, blood, and marrow, young as her pur∣pose, and soft as pitty; no Monument to worship, but a mould to make men in, a neate one, and I know how ere she appeares now, which is neare enough, you are starke blinde if you hit not soone at night; shee would venture fortie pounds more but to feele a flea in your shape bite her: drop no more Rings forsooth, this was the prettiest thing to know her heart by.

Fran.

Thou putst me in much comfort.

Lan.

Put your selfe in good comfort, if shee doe not point you out the way, droppe no more rings, she'le droppe her selfe into you.

Fran.

I wonder my brother comes not.

Lan.

Let him alone, and feede your selfe on your owne fortunes; come be frolicke, and lets be monstrous wise and full of councell, droppe no more Ringes.

Exit.

Enter Widdow, Fountaine, Bellamore, Harebraine.

Wid.

If you will needes be fool sh you must be used so: who sent for you? who entertained you Gentlemen? who bid you welcome hether? you came crowding, and impu∣dently bold; presse on my patience, as if I kept a house for all Companions, and of all sorts; will have you wills, will 'vexe me and force my liking from you, I never owed you.

Fount.

For all this we will dine with you.

Bell.

And for all this will have a better answer from you.

Wid.

You shall never, neither have a answer nor dinner,

unlesse you use me with a more staid respect, and stay your time too.

Enter Isabella, Shorthose, Roger, Humphrey, Ralph, with dishes of meate.

Isa.

Forward with the meate now.

Rog.

Come gentlemen march fairely.

Short.

Roger, you are a weake Servingman, your white broath runnes from you; fie, how I sweate under this pile of Beefe; an Elephant can doe more, oh for such a backe now, and in these times, what might a man arrive at; Goose grase you up, and Woodcocke march behinde thee, I am al∣most foundred.

Wid.

Who bid you bring the meate yet? away you knaves, J will not dine these two houres, how am I vext and chafed; goe carry it backe and tell the Cooke, hee's an arrant Rascall, to send before I called.

Short.

Faces about Gentlemen, beate a mournefull march then, and give some supporters, or esse I perish—

Exeunt Servants.

Isa.

It does me much good to see her chafe thus.

Hare.

Wee can stay Madame, and will stay and dwell here, tis good Ayre.

Fonn.

I know you have beds enough, and meate you ne∣ver want.

Wid.

You want a little.

Bell.

We dare to pretend on, since you are curlish, wee'le give you physicke, you must purge this anger, it burnes you and decaies you.

Wid.

If I had you out once I would be at charge of a per∣cullis for you.

Enter Vallantine.

Ʋal.

Good morrow noble Lady.

Wid.

Good morrow sir, how sweetly now he lookes, and how full manly, what slaves was these to use him so.

Val.

I come to looke a young man I call brother.

Wid.

Such a one was here sir, as I remember your owne brother, but gone almost an houre agoe.

Val.

God e'n then.

Wid.

You must not so soone sir, here be some Gentlemen, it may be you are acquainted with um.

Hare.

Will nothing make him miserable?

Foun.

How glorious!

Bell.

It is the very he, does it faine fortunes, or has hee a familliar.

Hare.

How doggedly he lookes too.

Foun.

I am beyond my faith, pray lets be going.

Val.

Where are these Gentlemen?

Wid.

Here.

Ʋal.

Yes I know um and will be more famillier.

Bell.

Morrow Maddam.

Wid,

Nay stay and dine.

Val.

You shall stay till I talke with you, and not dine neither, but fastingly my fury, you thinke you have undone me, thinke so still, and swallow that beleefe, till you be com∣pany for Court-hand Clarkes, and starved Atturneyes, till you breake in at playes like Prentises for three a groat, and cracke nuts with the sc ollers in penny Roomes agen, and fight for Apples, till you returne to what I found you, people betrai'd into the hands of Fencers, Challengers, Toothdrawers bills, and tedious Proclamations in Meale-markets, with thron∣gings to see Cutpurses: stirre not, but heare, and marke, Ile cut your throates else, till Waterworkes, and rumours of new Rivers rid you againe and runne you into questions who built Theamea, till you runne mad for Lotteries, and stand there with your tables to gleane the golden sentenses, and cite um secretly to Servingmen for sound Essayes, till Tavernes allow you but a Towell roome to tipple in wine that the Bell hath gone for twice, and glasses that looke like broken promises, tied up with wicker protestations, English Tobacco with halfe pipes, nor in halfe a yeare once burnt, and Bisket that Bawdes have rubb'd their gummes upon like Curralls to bring the marke againe; tell these houre rascalls so, this most fatall houre will come againe, thinke I sit downe the looser.

Wid.

Will you stay Gentlemen, a peece of beefe and a cold Capon, thats all, you know you are welcome.

Hum.

That was cast to abuse us.

Bell.

Steale off, the devill is in his anger.

Wid.

Nay I am sure you will not leave me so discurte∣ously now I have provided for you.

Val.

What doe you heare? why doe vexe a woman of her goodnesse, her state and worth; can you bring a faire certi∣ficate

that you deserve to be her footemen; husbands, you puppies, husbands for Whores and Bawdes, away you wind∣suckers; doe not looke bigge, nor prate, nor stay, nor grum∣ble, and when you are gone seeme to laugh at my fury, and slight this Lady, I shall heare, and know this: and though I am not bound to fight for women, as farre as they are good I dare preserve um: be not too bold, for if you be Ile swinge you, Ile swinge you monstrousty without all pitty, your honours now goe, avoide me mainely.

Exeunt.

Wid.

Well sir, you have delivered me, I thanke you, and with your noblenesse prevented danger their tongues might utter, will all goe and eate sir.

Ʋal.

No, no, I dare not trust my selfe with women, goe to your meate, eate little, take lesse ease, and tie your body to a daily labour, you may live honestly, and so I thank you.

Exit.

Wid.

Well goe thy wayes, thou art a noble fellow, and some meanes I must worke to have thee know it.

Exit.