Ashb.  Did it conteyne the valew of a myne I clayme no part in it.

Fisher.  Nor you?

Clowne.  Nor I.

Fisher.  By the contents of this budgett.

Clowne.  I sweare.

Ashb.  I vowe.

Fisher.  Then there tak’t to you, mayster, and once more Good lucke on my syde!

    Enter Godfrey, usheringe in Palestra and Scribonia.

Palest, You sent to speake with us?

Ashb.  I did indeed, Saye, knowe you this? y’have leave, surveigh it well.

Pal.  This? knowe I this? oh, my Scribonia, see! 
Yes, and by this alone may knowe myself. 
Looke well upon’t, deare syster; extasy
May dimme myne eyes, it cannot purblind thyne.

Scrib.  Itt is the same, Palestra.

Fisher.  Then sure I shall not bee the same man in the afternoone that I was in the morninge.

Scrib.  In this is a greate masse of wealthe included, All that the bawde hath by corruption gott In many a thrifty yeare.

Fisher.  Comfort for mee.

Ashb.  But tell me is there ought of yours included, Which you may justly chalendge?

Pal.  Of that gould
No not the valewe of one poor deneere:[132]
’Tis all base brokadge boathe of sinne and shame
Of which wee neare weare guilty; yet inclosed
There shall you find a cabinet of myne,
Where boathe my naturall parents you may see
In a small roome intended.

Fisher.  An unatrall child thou art to trust thy naturall parents into a leatheren bagge and leave them in the bottom of y’e sea.

Pal.  Showe mee the caskett:  if before you ope it
I do not name you every parcell in’t
Lett it no more bee myne, mak’t your own pryse;
But such small trifles as I justly chalenge
And cannot yeeld you the least benefitt,
Of them let mee bee mystresse, synce they are
The somme and crowne of all my future hopes,
But from my tender infancy deteined. 
As for the gould and Jewells mak’t your spoyle;
Of that I clayme no portione.

Fisher.  I accept of the condition.

Ashb.  Itt is boathe just and honest; we’ll have no juggling, And, Gripus, synce the busines concernes you, Have you a curious ey too’t.

Fisher.  Feare not mee, for boathe at sea and land I was ever a goodd marksman.

Ashb.  The caskett is nowe open’d:  what coms fyrste?

Pal.  Above, the clothes in which I fyrst was swathde, The linnen fyrst worne in myne infancy.

Ashb.  These are child’s swathinges; whether thyne or no It is to mee uncertaine.  To the rest.

Pal.  And next to these is a ritche handkercher, Where you shall find in golden letters wrought My place of byrthe, myne and my father’s name.