Suc.  Death of vallor!  I can hold no longer; I shall rise in wroth against him.

Crac.  Dee heare, Uncle? you must furnish him; he wilbe irefull presently, and then a whole bagg will not satisfie him; heele eate your gold in anger and drinke silver in great sack glasses.

Sir Geff.  Pox o’this Congee; ’t shalbe thus, no thus;
That writhing of my body does become me
Infinitly.  Now to begett an active
Complement that, like a matins sung
By virgins, may enchant her amorous ear. 
The Spanish Basolas[63] manos sounds, methinks,
As harsh as a Morisco kettledrum;
The French boniour is ordinary as their
Disease:  hees not a gent that cannot parlee. 
I must invent some new and polite phrases.

Crac.  Shall I have answeare yet, sir.

Sir Geff.  Pish, you disturbe me.—­Gratulate her rest,
Force an encomium on her huswifry
For being up so early.—­Bunch, where is my nephew?

Crac.  I have bin here this halfe hower and could not get answere.

Sir Geff, To what, good nephew?—­I was meditating a little seriously.

Crac.  Concerning this white earth.

Sir Geff.  Youde know the nature of it?  If it be marle ’tis good to manure land; if clay, to make tobacco pipes.

Crac.  I meane mony.

Sir Geff.  O mony, Nephew:  Ide thought youde learnd ith Citty
How to use mony:  here we do imploy it
To purchase land and other necessaries.

Suc.  Infamy to fame and noble reputation!  Old man, dost thou disdaine valour?  I tell thee, Catterpillar, I must have mony.

Sir Geff.  ’Tis reason good you should; it is fitting to cherish men of armes.  There is a treasurer in the county, Captaine, pays souldiers pensions:  if any be due to you Ile write my letter, you shall receive it.

Bun.  Faith, there he mett with you.

Crac.  I see a storme a coming.  Uncle, I wilbe answerable upon account:  my souldier must have mettall.

Sir Geff.  Iron and Steele is most convenient for Souldiers; but, since you say it, Nephew, he shall have it:  how much must it be?

Suc.  A score of Angells shall satisfie for the confrontment you have offred me in being dilatory.

Sir Geff. Bunch, deliver him ten pounds;—­but, dee heare.

Bunch, let be in light gold; ’twill serve his turn as well as heavier:  it may be he is one of those projectors transports it beyond sea.

    Enter Magdalen.

Mag.  Sir, I come to give you notice my ladyes walkd into the garden.

Sir Geff.  Life! is she upp so early?

Mag.  An hower since, beleeve it.

Crac.  Is my Mistress stirring?

Mag.  In truth, I know not.