Yo.  L. It shall Captain, I mean to be a Worthy.

Cap. One Worthy is too little, thou shalt be all.

Mor. Captain I shall deserve some of your love too.

Capt. Thou shalt have heart and hand too, noble Morecraft, if them wilt lend me mony.  I am a man of Garrison, be rul’d, and open to me those infernal gates, whence none of thy evil Angels pass again, and I will stile thee noble, nay Don Diego.  I’le woo thy Infanta for thee, and my Knight shall feast her with high meats, and make her apt.

Mor. Pardon me Captain, y’are beside my meaning.

Young Lo. No Mr. Morecraft, ’tis the Captains meaning I should prepare her for ye.

Capt. Or provok her.  Speak my modern man, I say provoke her.

Poet. Captain, I say so too, or stir her to it.  So say the Criticks.

Young Lo. But howsoever you expound it sir, she’s very welcom, and this shall serve for witness.  And Widow, since y’are come so happily, you shall deliver up the keyes, and free possession of this house, whilst I stand by to ratifie.

Wid. I had rather give it back again believe me, ’Tis a miserie to say you had it.  Take heed?

Young Lo. ’Tis past that Widow, come, sit down, some wine there, there is a scurvie banquet if we had it.  All this fair house is yours Sir Savil?

Savil. Yes Sir.

Young Lo. Are your keyes readie, I must ease your burden.

Sav. I am readie Sir to be undone, when you shall call me to’t.

Young Lo. Come come, thou shalt live better.

Sav. I shall have less to doe, that’s all, there’s half a dozen of my friends i’th’ fields sunning against a bank, with half a breech among ’em, I shall be with ’em shortly.  The care and continuall vexation of being rich, eat up this rascall.  What shall become of my poor familie, they are no sheep, and they must keep themselves.

Young Lo. Drink Master Morecraft, pray be merrie all:  Nay and you will not drink there’s no societie, Captain speak loud, and drink:  widow, a word.

Cap. Expou[n]d her throughly Knight.  Here God o’ gold, here’s to thy fair possessions; Be a Baron and a bold one:  leave off your tickling of young heirs like Trouts, and let thy Chimnies smoke.  Feed men of war, live and be honest, and be saved yet.

Mor. I thank you worthie Captain for your counsel.  You keep your Chimnies smoking there, your nostrils, and when you can, you feed a man of War, this makes you not a Baron, but a bare one:  and how or when you shall be saved, let the Clark o’th’ companie (you have commanded) have a just care of.

Poet. The man is much moved.  Be not angrie Sir, but as the Poet sings, let your displeasure be a short furie, and goe out.  You have spoke home, and bitterly, to me Sir.  Captain take truce, the Miser is a tart and a wittie whorson—­