Tho.  Pins, pins, they lay across his throat.  I told you he was bewitch’d.  Heyday! cards and dice, out with ’em, the Divells a gamester and paies the box soundly—­Now, now, now.

Un.  Whats that?

Tho.  Tis something clammy,—­now,—­oh, tis sope!

Cap.  Sope? give a man leave to wash his mouth.

Un.  Does not the lyme burne his throat, Thomas?

Tho.  Alas, poore gentleman, something now agen is ready to strangle him; out with em,—­hides, hides,—­it was the hornes stuck in his gullett.

Within.  Oh—­

Tho.  Well straind; what a foule stomack he has! open your mouth, Mr. Engine.

Cap.  Throw downe a pottlepot.

Tho.  I have, sir, and it has come up full of medium wine; if you have any charity come and helpe me to hold his head; now agen!

Within.  Oh, oh, oh!

Un.  This is very strange, Captaine; the man is certainely enchanted.

Tho.  Master, master, tis Shrovetuesday[267] and the prentices are pulling downe Covent Garden; the Brickes come as whole out as if he had swallowed Cherristones.  Hey! will you take Tobacco in the Roll? here is a whole shiplading of Bermudas and one little twopenny paper of berrinas, with a superscription ’To my very loving friends the Custome-house.’

Cap.  Put up that for a relique, Thomas, and open it upon high dayes to clear the sore eyes of our Spanish Marchants. Thomas, no more, but call the Drawer, an understanding Drawer and one that writes orthographie.

    [Enter Drawer.

—­Sirra, I charge you set a padlock upon that Chamber doore; there is a dangerous fellow must be brought to his purgation.  And looke all the goods that he hath vomitted be forthcomeing, while we discreetly goe and enforme the Magistrates.—­At your perill, sirra, at your perill seale up the Doore; and do you pay the reckoninge.

Un.  Sir Richard is a Justice.  There’s your money, and yet wee need not pay; the gentleman hath left enough for the Reckoning in the next Roome.

Un.  I ha made him fast, you are very welcome, gentlemen.  All’s paid in the Percullis.

[Exeunt.

[SCENE 3.]

Enter Courtwell and Sister.

Sis.  Ile walke no further; if you have a secret To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees And hedges will not listen.  What’s the business?  I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.

Cou.  Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.

Sis.  How? you ha not Traind me thus farr to tell me that?

Cou.  You are
Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle,
And one with whome tis most impossible
I ere should change Affection; theres nothing
To invite me too’t, not so much as that
Wee call a seeming reason, upon which
All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it,
My understanding Ladie.