Cap. Poet, you feign perdie, the wit of this man lies in his fingers ends, he must tell all; his tongue fills his mouth like a neats tongue, and only serves to lick his hungrie chaps after a purchase:  his brains and brimstone are the devils diet to a fat usurers head:  To her Knight, to her:  clap her aboard, and stow her.  Where’s the brave Steward?

Savil. Here’s your poor friend, and Savil Sir.

Capt. Away, th’art rich in ornaments of nature.  First in thy face, thou hast a serious face, a betting, bargaining, and saving face, a rich face, pawn it to the Usurer; a face to kindle the compassion of the most ignorant and frozen Justice.

Savil. ’Tis such I dare not shew it shortly sir.

Capt. Be blithe and bonny steward:  Master Morecraft, Drink to this man of reckoning?

Mor. Here’s e’ne to him.

Savil. The Devil guide it downward:  would there were in’t an acre of the great broom field he bought, to sweep your durtie Conscience, or to choak ye, ’tis all one to me, Usurer.

Young Lo. Consider what I told you, you are young, unapt for worldly business:  Is it fit one of such tenderness, so delicate, so contrarie to things of care, should stir and break her better meditations, in the bare brokage of a brace of Angels? or a new Kirtel, though it be Satten? eat by the hope of surfeits, and lie down only in expectation of a morrow, that may undo some easie hearted fool, or reach a widows curses?  Let out mony, whose use returns the principal? and get out of these troubles, a consuming heir:  For such a one must follow necessarily, you shall die hated, if not old and miserable; and that possest wealth that you got with pining, live to see tumbled to anothers hands, that is no more a kin to you, than you to his couzenage.

Widow. Sir you speak well, would God that charity had first begun here.

Young Lo. ’Tis yet time.  Be merrie, me thinks you want wine there, there’s more i’th’ house.  Captain, where rests the health?

Captain. It shall goe round boy.

Young Lo. Say you can suffer this, because the end points at much profit, can you so far bow below your blood, below your too much beautie, to be a partner of this fellowes bed, and lie with his diseases? if you can, I will no[t] press you further:  yet look upon him:  there’s nothing in that hide-bound Usurer, that man of mat, that all decai’d, but aches, for you to love, unless his perisht lungs, his drie cough, or his scurvie.  This is truth, and so far I dare speak yet:  he has yet past cure of Physick, spaw, or any diet, a primitive pox in his bones; and o’ my Knowledge he has been ten times rowell’d:  ye may love him; he had a bastard, his own toward issue, whipt, and then cropt for washing out the roses, in three farthings to make ’em pence.

Widow. I do not like these Morals.