Rag.  Julia, who’s that? my Lady Fulbank, Sir?

Gay.  Peace, Sirrah—­and call—­a—­no—­Pox on’t, come back—­and yet—­yes—­call my fulsome Landlady.

[Exit Rag.

Sir Cautious knows me not by Name or Person. 
And I will to this Wedding, I’m sure of seeing Julia there. 
And what may come of that—­but here’s old Nasty coming. 
I smell her up—­hah, my dear Landlady.

Enter Rag_ and Landlady.

Quite out of breath—­a Chair there for my Landlady.

Rag.  Here’s ne’er a one, Sir.

Land.  More of your Money and less of your Civility, good Mr. Wasteall.

Gay.  Dear Landlady—­

Land.  Dear me no Dears, Sir, but let me have my Money—­Eight Weeks Rent last Friday; besides Taverns, Ale-houses, Chandlers, Landresses’ Scores, and ready Money out of my Purse; you know it, Sir.

Gay.  Ay, but your Husband don’t; speak softly.

Land.  My Husband! what, do you think to fright me with my Husband?—­ I’d have you to know I’m an honest Woman, and care not this—­for my Husband.  Is this all the thanks I have for my kindness, for patching, borrowing and shifting for you; ’twas but last Week I pawn’d my best Petticoat, as I hope to wear it again, it cost me six and twenty shillings besides Making; then this Morning my new Norwich Mantua followed, and two postle Spoons, I had the whole dozen when you came first; but they dropt, and dropt, till I had only Judas left for my Husband.

Gay.  Hear me, good Landlady.

Land.  Then I’ve past my word at the George Tavern, for forty Shillings for you, ten Shillings at my Neighbour Squabs for Ale, besides seven Shillings to Mother Suds for Washing; and do you fob me off with my Husband?

Gay.  Here, Rag, run and fetch her a Pint of Sack—­there’s no other way of quenching the Fire in her flabber Chops.

[Exit Rag.

—­But, my dear Landlady, have a little Patience.

Land.  Patience!  I scorn your Words, Sir—­is this a place to trust in? tell me of Patience, that us’d to have my money before hand; come, come, pay me quickly—­or old Gregory Grimes house shall be too hot to hold you.

Gay.  Is’t come to this, can I not be heard?

Land.  No, Sir, you had good Clothes when you came first, but they dwindled daily, till they dwindled to this old Campaign—­with tan’d coloured Lining—­once red—­but now all Colours of the Rain-bow, a Cloke to sculk in a Nights, and a pair of piss-burn’d shammy Breeches.  Nay, your very Badge of Manhood’s gone too.

Gay.  How, Landlady! nay then, i’faith, no wonder if you rail so.

Land.  Your Silver Sword I mean—­transmogrified to this two-handed Basket Hilt—­this old Sir Guy of Warwick—­which will sell for nothing but old Iron.  In fine, I’ll have my money, Sir, or i’faith, Alsatia shall not shelter you.