p. 144, l. 6.  B—­G] were hateful. l. 11.  B and C] oh stay. l. 12.  F] Sir. l. 13.  B] tire your constancy.

p. 145, l. 9.  F omits] it. l. 22.  B and C omit] l. l. 27.  B—­G] All’s. 1. 29.  B—­D make this line the conclusion of Philaster’s speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him.

p. 146, l. 22.  B—­E] oft would.

p. 147, l. 1.  B—­G] but have. l. 17.  F omits] thou wilt. l. 31.  B—­H] vertue. l. 35.  F] set us free.

p. 148, l. 9.  F] your self. l. 10.  B—­E] And like to see. l. 14.  After

this line B—­F, H add]

Finis.

From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads]

   Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens, leading PHARAMONT
   prisoner.

CAP.  Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your
                nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and
                set your mouthes ope’ children, till your pallats fall
                frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse
                pepper; and then crie Phylaster, brave Phylaster.  Let
                Phylaster be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire
                of deare Indentures:  King of clubs, the your cut-water-
                chamlets, and your painting:  let not your hasty silkes,
                deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch
                cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood
                scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to
                your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil’d
                spirit’s, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours
                make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse;
                Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry.

OMNES. Phylaster, Phylasier.

CAP.  How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? 
                These are mad boyes I can tell you,
                These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst,
                And let a Man of warre, an Argosea,
                Stoope to carry coales.

PHAR.  Why, you damn’d slaves, doe you know who I am?

CAP.  Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you
                gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest
                that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare
                Prince pippin, I’le have you codled, let him loose my
                spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts:  Now let
                mee see what this brave man dares doe:  note sir, have at
                you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe
                sweete Prince?  I could hock your grace, and hang you
                crosse leg’d, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus.