Savil. Farewell Gentleman.

Elder Lo. O sleep Sir, sleep. [Exit Elder Lo.

Young Lo. Well boyes, you see what’s faln, let’s in and drink, and give thanks for it.

Capt. Let’s give thanks for it.

Young Lo. Drunk as I live.

Savil. Drunk as I live boyes.

Young Lo. Why, now thou art able to discharge thine office, and cast up a reckoning of some weight; I will be knighted, for my state will bear it, ’tis sixteen hundred boyes:  off with your husks, I’le skin you all in Sattin.

Capt. O sweet Loveless!

Savil. All in Sattin?  O sweet Loveless!

Young Lo.  March in my noble Compeeres:  and this my Countess shall be led by two:  and so proceed we to the Will.
    [Exeunt.

Enter Morecraft the Usurer, and Widow.

Morec.  And Widow as I say be your own friend:  your husband left you wealthy, I and wise, continue so sweet duck, continue so.  Take heed of young smooth Varlets, younger Brothers:  they are worms that will eat through your bags:  they are very Lightning, that with a flash or two will melt your money, and never singe your purse-strings:  they are Colts, wench Colts, heady and dangerous, till we take ’em up, and make ’em fit for Bonds:  look upon me, I have had, and have yet matter of moment girle, matter of moment; you may meet with a worse back, I’le not commend it.

Wid.  Nor I neither Sir.

Mor.  Yet thus far by your favour Widow, ’tis tuffe.

Wid.  And therefore not for my dyet, for I love a tender one.

Mor.  Sweet Widow leave your frumps, and be edified:  you know my state, I sell no Perspectives, Scarfs, Gloves, nor Hangers, nor put my trust in Shoe-ties; and where your Husband in an age was rising by burnt figs, dreg’d with meal and powdered sugar, saunders, and grains, wormeseed and rotten Raisins, and such vile Tobacco, that made the footmen mangie; I in a year have put up hundreds inclos’d, my Widow, those pleasant Meadows, by a forfeit morgage:  for which the poor Knight takes a lone chamber, owes for his Ale, and dare not beat his Hostess:  nay more—­

Wid.  Good Sir no more, what ere my Husband was, I know what I am, and if you marry me, you must bear it bravely off Sir.

Mor.  Not with the head, sweet Widow.

Wid.  No sweet Sir, but with your shoulders:  I must have you dub’d, for under that I will not stoop a feather.  My husband was a fellow lov’d to toyle, fed ill, made gain his exercise, and so grew costive, which for that I was his wife, I gave way to, and spun mine own smocks course, and sir, so little:  but let that pass, time, that wears all things out, wore out this husband, who in penitence of such fruitless five years marriage, left me great with his wealth, which if you’le be a worthie gossip to, be knighted Sir. [Enter Savil.