Frail.

Sirrah, Simon St. Mary-Overies, my Mistress sends away all her Suiters, and puts Fleas in their Ears.

Sim.

Frailty, she does like an honest, chast, and virtuous Woman; for Widows ought not to wallow in the puddle of Iniquity.

Frail.

Yet, Simon, many Widows will do't, whatsoe'er comes on't.

Sim.

True, Frailty, their filthy Flesh desires a Conjunction Copulative; what Strangers are within, Frailty?

Frail.

There's none, Simon; but Master Pilfer the Taylor: he's above with Sir Godfrey, praising of a Doublet: and I must trudge anon to fetch Master Suds the Barber.

Sim.

Master Sud's a good Man, he washes the sins of the Beard clean.

Skir.

How now, Creatures? what's a Clock?

Frail.

Why, do you take us to be Jack at the Clock-House?

Skir.

I say again to you, what's a Clock?

Sim.

Truly la, we go by the Clock of our Conscience, all worldly Clocks we know go false, and are set by drunken Sextons.

Skir.

Then what's a Clock in your Conscience?—O, I must break off, here comes the Corporal—hum, hum: —what's a Clock?

Corp.

A Clock? why past seventeen.

Frail.

Past seventeen? nay, h'as met with his match now, Corporal Oath will fit him.

Skir.

Thou dost not bawk nor baffle me, dost thou? I am a Soldier—past seventeen?

Corp.

Ay, thou art not angry with the Figures, art thou? I will prove it unto thee, 12 and 1 is thirteen, I hope, 2 fourteen, 3 fifteen, 4 sixteen, and 5 seventeen, then past seventeen, I will take the Dial's part in a just Cause.

Skir.

I say 'tis but past five then.

Corp.

I'll swear 'tis past seventeen then: dost thou not know Numbers? canst thou not cast?

Skir.

Cast? dost thou speak of my casting i'th street?

Corp.

Ay, and in the Market-place.

Sim.

Clubs, Clubs, Clubs.

Frail.

Ay, I knew by their shuffling, Clubs would be Trump: Mass here's the Knave, and he can do any good upon 'em: Clubs, Clubs, Clubs,

Capt.

O Villain, thou hast open'd a Vein in my Leg.

Pye.

How now? for shame, for shame, put up, put up.

Capt.

By yon blue Welkin, 'twas out of my part, George, to be hurt on the Leg.

Pye.

Oh, peace now—I have a Cordial here to comfort thee.

Offi.

Down with 'em, down with 'em, lay Hands upon the Villain.

Skir.

Lay Hands on me?

Pye.

I'll not be seen among 'em now.

Capt.
I'm hurt, and had more need have Surgeons
Lay Hands upon me, than rough Officers.

Offi.
Go, carry him to be dress'd then:
Thus mutinous Soldier shall along with me to Prison.

Skir.
To Prison? where's George?

Offi.
Away with him. [Exeunt with Skir.

Pye.
So,
All lights as I would wish, the amaz'd Widow
Will plant me strongly now in her belief,
And wonder at the virtue of my words:
For the event turns these presages from 'em,
Of being mad and dumb, and begets joy
Mingled with admiration: these empty Creatures,
Soldier and Corporal, were but ordain'd
As instruments for me to work upon.
Now to my Patient, here's his Potion [Exit Pye-boord. Enter the Widow with her two Daughters.

Wid.
O wondrous happiness, beyond our thoughts!
O lucky fair event! I think our Fortunes
Were blest e'en in our Cradles: we are quitted
Of all those shameful violent presages
By this rash bleeding chance: go, Frailty, run, and know
Whether he be yet living, or yet dead,
That here before my Door receiv'd his hurt.

Frail.

Madam, he was carried to the Superior, but if he had no Mony when he came there, I warrant he's dead by this time.

Fran.

Sure that Man is a rare Fortune-teller, never lookt upon our Hands, nor upon any mark about us, a wondrous Fellow surely.

Moll.

I am glad I have the use of my Tongue yet, tho' of nothing else. I shall find the way to marry too, I hope shortly.

Wid.

O where's my Brother Sir Godfrey, I would he were here, that I might relate to him how prophetically the cunning Gentleman spoke in all things.

Sir God.

O my Chain, my Chain, I have lost my Chain, where be these Villains, Varlets?

Wid.

Oh, he'as lost his Chain.

Sir God.

My Chain, my Chain.

Wid.

Brother, be patient, hear me speak, you know I told you that a Cunning-man told me, that you should have a loss, and he has Prophesied so true.

Sir God.

Out, he's a Villain to prophesie of the loss of my Chain, 'twas worth above three hundred Crowns, besides 'twas my Father's, my Father's Father's, my Grandfather's huge Grandfather's: I had as lief ha lost my Neck, as the Chain that hung about it. O my Chain, my Chain.

Wid.

Oh, Brother, who can be against a misfortune, 'tis happy 'twas no more.

Sir God.

No more! O goodly godly Sister, would you had me lost more? my best Gown too, with the Cloth of Gold-Lace? my Holiday Gascoins, and my Jerkin set with Pearl? no more!

Wid.

Oh, Brother, you can read—

Sir God.

But I cannot read where my Chain is: what Strangers have been here? you let in Strangers, Thieves, and Catch-poles: how comes it gone? there was none above with me but my Taylor, and my Taylor will not—steal I hope?

Moll.

No, he's afraid of a Chain.

Wid.

How now, Sirrah? the news?

Frail.

O, Mistress, he may well be call'd a Corporal now, for his Corps are as dead as a cold Capon's?

Wid.

More happiness.

Sir God.

Sirrah, what's this to my Chain? where's my Chain, Knave?

Frail.

Your Chain, Sir?

Sir God.

My Chain is lost, Villain.

Frail.

I would he were hang'd in Chains that has it then for me: Alas, Sir, I saw none of your Chain since you were hung with it your self.

Sir God.

Out Varlet; it had full three thousand Links, I have oft told it over at my Prayers:

Frail.

Had it so, Sir, sure it cannot be lost then; I'll put you in that comfort.

Sir God.

Why? why?

Frail.

Why if your Chain had so many Links, it cannot chuse but come to light.

Sir God.

Delusion. Now, long Nicholas, where is my Chain?

Nich.
Why about your Neck, is't not, Sir?

Sir God.
About my Neck, Varlet? my Chain is lost,
'Tis stoll'n away, I'm robb'd.

Wid.
Nay, Brother, show your self a Man.

Nich.

If it be lost or stole, if he would be patient, Mistress, I could bring him to a cunning Kinsman of mine that would fetch it again with a Sesarara.

Sir God.

Canst thou? I will be patient, say, where dwells he?

Nich.

Marry he dwells now, Sir, where he would not dwell, and he could chuse, in the Marshalsea, Sir; but he's an excellent Fellow if he were out: h'as travell'd all the World o'er, he, and been in the seven and twenty Provinces: why, he would make it be fecht, Sir, if it were rid a thousand Mile out of Town.

Sir God.

An admirable Fellow, what lies he for?

Nich.

Why, he did but rob a Steward of ten Groats t'other Night, as any Man would ha done, and there he lies for't.

Sir God.
I'll make his peace,
A trifle, I'll get his pardon,
Besides a bountiful reward, I'll about it,
But see the Clerks, the Justice will do much;
I will about it straight, good Sister pardon me,
All will be well I hope, and turn to good,
The name of Conjurer has laid my Blood. [Exeunt. Enter Puttock and Ravenshaw, two Serjeants, with Yeoman Dogson, to arrest George Pye-boord.

Put.

His Hostess where he lies will trust him no longer, she hath feed me to arrest him; if you will accompany me, because I know not of what nature the Scholar is, whether desperate or swift, you shall share with me, Serjeant Ravenshaw, I have the good Angel to arrest him.

Rav.

Troth I'll take part with thee then, Serjeant, not for the sake of the Mony so much, as for the hate I bear to a Scholar. Why, Serjeant, 'tis natural in us you know to hate Scholars; natural besides, they will publish our Imperfections, Knaveries, and Conveyances upon Scaffolds and Stages.

Put.

Ay, and spightfully too; troth I have wondred how

the Slaves could see into our Breasts so much, when our Doublets are button'd with Pewter.

Rav.

Ay, and so close without yielding: oh, they're parlous Fellows, they will search more with their Wits, than a Constable with his Officers.

Put.

Whist, whist, whist, Yeoman Dogson, Yeoman Dogson.

Dog.

Ha? what says Serjeant?

Put.

Is he in the Pothecaries Shop still?

Dog.

Ay, ay.

Put.

Have an Eye, have an Eye.

Rav.

The best is, Serjeant, if he be a true Scholar, he wears no Weapon I think.

Put.

No, no, he wears no Weapon.

Rav.

Mass, I am right glad of that: 'thas put me in better Heart: nay, if I clutch him once, let me alone to drag him if he be stiff-Necked; I have been one of the six my self, that has dragg'd as tall Men of their Hands, when their Weapons have been gone, as ever Bastinado'd a Serjeant— I have done I can tell you.

Dog.

Serjeant Puttock, Serjeant Puttock.

Put.

Hoh.

Dog.

He's coming out single.

Put.

Peace, peace, be not too greedy, let him play a little, let him play a little, we'll jerk him up of a sudden, I ha fish'd in my tune.

Rav.

Ay, and caught many a Fool, Serjeant.

Pye.
I parted now from Nicholas: the Chain's couch'd,
And the old Knight has spent his rage upon't,
The Widow holds me in great admiration
For cunning Art: 'mongst joys, I'm e'en lost,
For my device can no way now be crost,
And now I must to Prison to the Captain, and there—

Put.

I arrest you, Sir.

Pye.

Oh—I spoke truer than I was aware, I must to Prison indeed.

Put.

They say you're a Scholar, nay Sir—Yeoman Dogson, have care to his Arms—you'll rail against Serjeants, and stage 'em, you tickle their Vices.

Pye.

Nay, use me like a Gentleman,—I'm little less.

Put.

You a Gentleman? that's a good Jest i'faith; can a Scholar be a Gentleman—when a Gentleman will not be a Scholar;—look upon your wealthy Citizens Sons, whether they be Scholars or no, that are Gentlemen by their Fathers Trades: a Scholar a Gentleman!

Pye.

Nay, let Fortune drive all her stings into me, she cannot hurt that in me, a Gentleman, Accidens inseparabile to my Blood.

Rav.

A rablement, nay, you shall have a bloody rablement upon you I warrant you.

Put.

Go, Yeoman Dogson, before, and enter the Action i'th' Counter.

Pye.
Pray do not handle me cruelly, I'll go
Whither you please to have me.

Put.
Oh, he's tame, let him loose Serjeant.

Pye.

Pray at whose Suit is this?

Put.

Why, at your Hostesses Suit where you lye, Mistress Cunniburrow, for Bed and Board, the Sum four Pound five Shillings and five Pence.

Pye.
I know the Sum too true, yet I presum'd
Upon a farther day; well, 'tis my Stars:
And I must bear it now, though never harder.
I swear now, my device is crost indeed.
Captain must lye by't: this is Deceit's seed.

Put.

Come, come away.

Pye.

Pray give me so much time as to knit my Garter, and I'll away with you.

Put.

Well, we must be paid for this waiting upon you, this is no pains to attend thus

Pye.

I am now wretched and miserable, I shall ne'er recover of this Disease: hot Iron gnaw their Fists: they have struck a Fever into my Shoulder, which I shall ne'er shake out again I fear me, 'till with a true Habeas Corpus the Sexton remove me; oh if I take Prison once, I shall be press'd to death with Actions, but not so happy as speedily; perhaps I may be forty Year a pressing 'till I be a thin old Man, that looking through the Grates, Men may look through me; all my Means is confounded, what shall I do? has my Wits served me so long, and now give me the slip (like a train'd Servant) when I have most need of 'em: no Device to keep my poor Carcase from these Puttocks?

—yes, happiness, have I a Paper about me now? yes too, I'll try it, it may hit, Extremity is Touch-stone unto Wit, ay, ay.

Put.

'Sfoot how many yards are in thy Garters, that thou art so long a tying on them? come away, Sir.

Pye.

Troth Serjeant, I protest, you could never ha took me at a worse time, for now at this instant I have no lawful Picture about me.

Put.

'Slid how shall we come by our Fees then?

Rav.

We must have Fees, Sirrah.

Pye.

I could have wish'd i'faith, that you had took me half an Hour hence for your own sake, for I protest if you had not cross'd me, I was going in great joy to receive five Pound of a Gentleman, for the Device of a Mask here, drawn in this Paper, but now, come, I must be contented, 'tis but so much lost, and answerable to the rest of my Fortunes.

Put.

Why, how far hence dwells that Gentleman?

Rav.

Ay, well said Serjeant, 'tis good to cast about for Mony.

Put.

Speak, if it be not far—

Pye.

We are but a little past it, the next Street behind us.

Put.

'Slid we have waited upon you grievously already, if you'll say you'll be liberal when you ha't, give us double Fees, and spend upon's, why we'll show you that kindness, and go along with you to the Gentleman.

Rav.

Ay, well said still, Serjeant, urge that.

Pye.

Troth if it will suffice, it shall all be among you, for my part I'll not pocket a Penny, my Hostess shall have her four Pound five Shillings, and bate me the five Pence, and the other fifteen Shillings I'll spend upon you.

Rav.

Why, now thou art a good Scholar.

Put.

An excellent Scholar i'faith; has proceeded very well alate; come, we'll along with you.

Ser.

Who knocks, who's at Door? we had need of a Porter.

Pye.

A few Friends here,—pray is the Gentleman your Master within?

Ser.
Yes, is your business to him?

Pye.
Ay, he knows it, when he sees me:
I pray you, have you forgot me?

Ser.

Ay by my troth, Sir, pray come near, I'll in and tell him of you, please you to walk here in the Gallery 'till he comes.

Pye.

We will attend his Worship,—Worship I think, for so much the Post at his Door should signifie, and the fair coming in, and the Wicket, else I neither knew him nor his Worship, but 'tis happiness he is within Doors, whatsoe'er he be, if he be not too much a formal Citizen, he may do me good: Serjeant and Yeoman, how do you like this House, is't not most wholsomely plotted?

Rav.

Troth Prisoner, an exceeding fine House.

Pye.

Yet I wonder how he should forget me, for he ne'er knew me: No matter, what is forgot in you, will be remembred in your Master.

Put.

Oh, Dog-holes to't.

Pye.

Dog-holes indeed—I can tell you I have great hope to have my Chamber here shortly, nay, and Dyet too, for he's the most free-heartedst Gentleman where he takes: you would little think it. And what a fine Gallery were here for me to walk and study, and make Verses?

Put.

O, it stands pleasantly for a Scholar.

Pye.

Look what Maps, and Pictures, and Devices, and things, neatly, delicately? Mass here he comes, he should be a Gentleman, I like his Beard well;—All happiness to your Worship.

Gent.

You're kindly welcome, Sir.

Put.

A simple salutation.

Rav.

Mass, it seems the Gentleman makes great account of him.

Gent.

I have the thing here for you, Sir.

Pye.

I beseech you, conceal me, Sir, I'm undone else,— I have the Mask here for you, Sir, Look you, Sir,—I beseech your Worship, first pardon my rudeness, for my extreams make me bolder than I would be; I am a poor Gentleman, and a Scholar, and now most unfortunately

fall'n into the hands of unmerciful Officers, arrested for Debt, which though small, I am not able to compass, by reason I'm destitute of Lands, Mony, and Friends, so that if I fall into the hungry swallow of the Prison, I am like utterly to perish, and with Fees and Extortions be pinch'd clean to the Bone: Now, if ever pity had interest in the Blood of a Gentleman, I beseech you vouchsafe but to favour that means of my escape, which I have already thought upon.

Gent.

Go forward.

Put.

I warrant he likes it rarely.

Pye.

In the plunge of my Extremities, being giddy, and doubtful what to do; at last it was put in my labouring thoughts, to make a happy use of this Paper, and to blear their unletter'd Eyes, I told them there was a Device for a Mask drawn in't, and that (but for their interception) I was going to a Gentleman to receive my reward for't: they greedy at this word, and hoping to make purchase of me, offer'd their attendance to go along with me, my hap was to make bold with your Door, Sir, which my thoughts shew'd me the most fairest and comfortablest entrance, and I hope I have happened right upon Understanding, and Pity: may it please your good Worship then but to uphold my Device, which is to let one of your Men put me out at a Back-door, and I shall be bound to your Worship for ever.

Gent.

By my troth an excellent Device.

Put.

An excellent Device, he says; he likes it wonderfully.

Gent.

A my faith, I never heard a better.

Raven.

Hark, he swears he never heard a better, Serjeant.

Put.

O, there's no talk on't, he's an excellent Scholar, and especially for a Mask.

Gent.

Give me your Paper, your Device; I was never better pleas'd in all my Life: good Wit, brave Wit, finely wrought, come in, Sir, and receive your Mony, Sir.

Pye.
I'll follow your good Worship,—
You heard how he lik'd it now?

Put.

Puh, we know he could not chuse but like it: go thy ways, thou art a fine witty Fellow i'faith, thou shalt Discourse it to us at the Tavern anon, wilt thou?

Pye.

Ay, ay, that I will,—look, Serjeants, here are Maps, and pretty Toys, be doing in the mean time, I shall quickly have told out the Mony, you know.

Put.

Go, go, little Villain, fetch thy chink, I begin to love thee, I'll be drunk to Night in thy company.

Pye.
This Gentleman I may well call a part
Of my Salvation, in these earthly evils,
For he has sav'd me from three hungry Devils. [Exit Pye.

Put.

Sirrah Serjeant, these Maps are pretty painted things, but I could ne'er fancy them yet, methinks they're too busie, and full of Circles and Conjurations; they say all the World's in one of them, but I could ne'er find the Counter in the Poultry.

Rav.

I think so: how could you find it? for you know it stands behind the Houses.

Dog.

Mass, that's true, then we must look o'th' back-side for't: 'sfoot here's nothing, all's bare.

Rav.

I warrant thee that stands for the Counter, for you know there's a company of bare Fellows there.

Put.

Faith like enough, Serjeant, I never mark'd so much before. Sirrah Serjeant, and Yeoman, I should love these Maps out a cry now, if we could see Men peep out of Door in 'em, oh, we might have 'em in a Morning to our Breakfast so finely, and ne'er knock our Heels to the ground a whole Day for 'em.

Rav.
Ay marry Sir, I'd buy one my self.
But this talk is by the way, where shall's Sup to Night:
Five Pound receiv'd, let's talk of that.

I have a trick worth all, you two shall bear him to th' Tavern, whilst I go close with his Hostess, and work out of her, I know she would be glad of the Sum, to finger Mony; because she knows 'tis but a desperate Debt, and full of hazard: what will you say if I bring it to pass, that the Hostess shall be contented with one half for all, and we to share t'other fifty Shillings, Bullies?

Put.

Why, I would call thee King of Serjeants, and thou should'st be Chronicled in the Counter-Book for ever.

Rav.

Well, put it to me, we'll make a Night on't i'faith.

Dog.

'Sfoot, I think he receives more Mony, he stays so long.

Put.

He tarrys long indeed, may be, I can tell you, upon the good liking on't the Gentleman may prove more bountiful.

Rav.

That would be rare, we'll search him.

Put.

Nay, be sure of it, we'll search him, and make him light enough.

Rav.

Oh, here comes the Gentleman,—By your leave, Sir.

Gent.

God you god den Sirs,—would you speak with me?

Put.

No, not with your Worship, Sir; only we are hold to stay for a Friend of ours that went in with your Worship.

Gent.

Who? not the Scholar?

Put.

Yes, e'en he, an it please your Worship.

Gent.

Did he make you stay for him? he did you wrong then: why, I can assure you he's gone above an Hour ago.

Rav.

How, Sir?

Gent.

I paid him his Mony, and my Man told me he went out at Back-door.

Put.

Back-door?

Gent.

Why, what's the matter?

Put.

He was our Prisoner, Sir, we did arrest him.

Gent.

What he was not? you the Sheriff's Officers— you were to blame then,

Rav.
Vengeance dog him with't.

Put.
'Sfoot has he gull'd us so?

Dog.
Where shall we sup now, Serjeants?

Put.
Sup, Simon, now, eat Porridge for a Month.

Well, we cannot impute it to any lack of good will in your Worship,—you did but as another would have done, 'twas our hard Fortunes to miss the Purchase, but if e'er we clutch him again, the Counter shall charm him.

Rav.

The Hole shall rot him.

Dog.

Amen.

Gent.
So,

Vex out your Lungs without Doors, I am proud,
It was my hap to help him, it sell fit,
He went not empty neither for his Wit:
Alas, poor Wretch, I could not blame his Brain,
To labour his Delivery, to be free,
From their unpitying fangs,—I'm glad it stood
Within my power to do a Scholar good. [Exit. Enter in the Prison, meeting, Pye-boord and Captain, Pye-boord coming in muffled.

Capt.

How now, who's that? what are you?

Pye.

The same that I should be, Captain.

Capt.

Geore Pye-boord, honest George? why cam'st thou in half fac'd, muffled so?

Pye.

Oh Captain, I thought we should ne'er ha'laugh'd again, never spent frolick Hour again.

Capt.

Why? why?

Pye.
I coming to prepare thee, and with News
As happy as thy quick Delivery,
Was trac'd out by the scent, arrested, Captain.

Capt.

Arrested, George?

Pye.

Arrested; guess, guess, how many Dogs do you think I'd upon me?

Capt.

Dogs? I say, I know not.

Pye.
Almost as many as George Stone the Bear:
Three at once, three at once.

Capt.
How didst thou shake 'em off then?

Pye.
The time is busie, and calls upon our Wits, let it suffice,
Here I stand safe, and scap'd by Miracle:
Some other Hour shall tell thee, when we'll steep
Our Eyes in laughter: Captain, my device
Leans to thy Happiness, for e'er the Day
Be spent to th' Girdle, thou shalt be free:
The Corporal's in's first sleep, the Chain is miss'd,
Thy Kinsman has exprest thee, and the old Knight
With Palsey-hams now labours thy release.
What rests, is all in thee, to Conjure, Captain.

Capt.

Conjure? 'sfoot, George, you know, the Devil a conjuring I can conjure.

Pye.

The Devil of conjuring? nay by my fay, I'd not have thee do so much, Captain, as the Devil a conjuring;

look here, I ha brought thee a Circle ready charactered and all.

Cap.

'Sfoot, George, art in thy right Wits, dost know what thou sayst? why dost talk to a Captain a conjuring? didst thou ever hear of a Captain conjure in thy Life? dost call't a Circle? 'tis too wide a thing, methinks; had it been a lesser Circle, then I knew what to have done.

Pye.

Why every Fool knows that, Captain; nay then I'll not cog with you, Captain, if you'll stay and hang the next Sessions you may.

Capt.

No, by my Faith, George, come, come, let's to conjuring.

Pye.

But if you look to be released, as my Wits have took pain to work it, and all means wrought to farther it, besides to put Crowns in your Purse, to make you a Man of better hopes, and whereas before you were a Captain or poor Soldier, to make you now a Commander of rich Fools, which is truly the only best purchace Peace can allow you, safer than High-ways, Heath, or Cony-groves, and yet a far better Booty; for your greatest Thieves are never hang'd, never hang'd; for why? they're wise, and cheat within Doors; and we gold Fools of more Mony in one Night, than your false-tail'd Gelding will purchase in a Twelve-Months running, which confirms the old Beldams saying, He's wisest, that keeps himself warmest, that is, he that robs by a good Fire.

Capt.

Well opened i'faith, George, thou hast pull'd that saying out of the Husk.

Pye.

Captain Idle, 'tis no time now to delude or delay, the old Knight will be here suddenly, I'll perfect you, direct you, tell you the trick on't: 'tis nothing.

Capt.

'Sfoot, George, I know not what to say to't, conjure? I shall be hang'd e'er I conjure.

Pye.

Nay, tell not me of that, Captain, you'll ne'er conjure after you're hang'd, I warrant you; look you, Sir, a parlous Matter, sure, first to spread your Circle upon the Ground, then with a little conjuring Ceremony, as I'll have an Hackney-man's Wand silver'd o'er a purpose for you, then arriving in the Circle, with a huge Word, and a great Trample, as for instance have you never seen a stalking,

stamping Player, that will raise a tempest with his Tongue, and Thunder with his Heels?

Capt.

O yes, yes, yes; often, often.

Pye.

Why be like such a one? for any thing will blear the old Knight's Eyes; for you must note, that He'll ne'er dare to venture into the Room, only perhaps peep fearfully through the Key-hole, to see how the Play goes forward.

Capt.

Well, I may go about it when I will, but mark the end on't, I shall but shame my self i'faith, George, speak big words, and stamp and stare, and he look in at Key-hole, why the very thought of that would make me laugh outright, and spoil all; nay I'll tell thee, George, when I apprehend a thing once, I am of such a laxative Laughter, that if the Devil himself stood by, I should laugh in his Face.

Pye.

Puh, that's but the babe of a Man, and may easily be hush'd, as to think upon some disaster, some sad Misfortune, as the Death of thy Father i'th' Country.

Capt.

'Sfoot, that would be the more to drive me into such an ecstasie, that I should ne'er lin laughing else.

Pye.

Why then think upon going to hanging.

Capt.

Mass that's well remembered, now I'll do well, I warrant thee, ne'er fear me now; but how shall I do, George, for boisterous Words, and horrible Names?

Pye.

Puh, any fustian Invocations, Captain, will serve as well as the best, so you rant them out well, or you may go to a Pothecary's Shop, and take all the words from the Boxes.

Capt.

Troth, and you say true, George, there's strange words enow to raise a hundred Quack-salvers, though they be ne'er so poor when they begin? but here lyes the fear on't, how if in this false Conjuration, a true Devil should pop up indeed.

Pye.

A true Devil, Captain? why there was ne'er such a one, nay faith he that has this place, is as false a Knave as our last Church-warden.

Capt.

Then he's false enough a Conscience i'faith George.

The Cry at Marshalsea. Enter Sir Godfrey, Mr. Edmond, and Nicholas.

Cry Prisoners.

Good Gentlemen over the way, send your relief:

Pye.

He's come, he's come.

Nich.

Master, that's my Kinsman yonder in the Buff-Jerkin —Kinsman, that's my Master yonder i'th Taffaty Hat—pray salute him intirely.