THOM.  The more fool he.

JOHN.  Never from hence acknowledge you his wife: 
Where others strive t’enrich their father’s name,
It should be his only aim to beggar ours,
To spend their means should be his only pride: 
Which, with a sigh confirm’d, he’s rid to London,
Vowing a course,[380] that by his life so foul
Men ne’er should join the hands without the soul.

KATH.  All is but grief, and I am arm’d for it.

JOHN.  We’ll bring you on your way in hope thus strong: 
Time may at length make straight what yet is wrong.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

An Inn.

Enter ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY.

WEN.  He’s our own, he’s our own!  Come, let’s make use of his wealth, as the sun of ice:  melt it, melt it.

ILF.  But art sure he will hold his meeting?

WEN.  As sure as I am now, and was dead drunk last night.

ILF.  Why then so sure will I be arrested by a couple of serjeants, and fall into one of the unlucky cranks about Cheapside, called Counters.

BAR.  Withal, I have provided Master Gripe the usurer, who upon the instant will be ready to step in, charge the serjeants to keep thee fast, and that now he will have his five hundred pounds, or thou shalt rot for it.

WEN.  When it follows, young Scarborow shall be bound for the one; then take up as much more.  We share the one-half, and help him to be drunk with the other.

ILF.  Ha, ha, ha!

    Enter SCARBOROW.

BAR.  Why dost laugh, Frank?

ILF.  To see that we and usurers live by the fall of young heirs, as swine by the dropping of acorns.  But he’s come.  Where be these rogues:  shall we have no ’tendance here?

SCAR.  Good day, gentlemen.

ILF.  A thousand good days, my noble bully, and as many good fortunes as there were grasshoppers in Egypt, and that’s covered over with good luck.  But nouns, pronouns and participles! where be these rogues here? what, shall we have no wine here?

Enter DRAWER.

DRAW.  Anon, anon, sir.

ILF.  Anon, goodman rascal, must we stay your leisure? give’t us by and by, with a pox to you.

SCAR.  O, do not hurt the fellow.

[Exit DRAWER.

ILF.  Hurt him! hang him, scrapetrencher, stair-wearer,[381] wine-spiller, metal-clanker, rogue by generation.  Why, dost hear, Will?  If thou dost not use these grape-spillers as you do their pottle-pots, quoit them down-stairs three or four times at a supper, they’ll grow as saucy with you as serjeants, and make bills more unconscionable than tailors.

Enter DRAWER.

DRAW.  Here’s the pure and neat grape, gentlemen, I assure you.[382]

ILF.  Fill up:  what have you brought here, goodman rogue?

DRAW.  The pure element of claret, sir.