Young Lo. You must not like him then.

Enter Elder Love.

Elder Lo. By your leave Gentlemen?

Young Lo. By my troth sir you are welcom, welcom faith:  Lord what a stranger you are grown; pray know this Gentlewoman, and if you please these friends here:  we are merry, you see the worst on’t; your house has been kept warm Sir.

Elder Lo. I am glad to hear it Brother, pray God you are wise too.

Young Lo. Pray Mr. Morecraft know my elder Brother, and Captain do you complement. Savil I dare swear is glad at heart to see you; Lord, we heard Sir you were drown’d at Sea, and see how luckily things come about!

More. This mony must be paid again Sir.

Young Lo. No Sir, pray keep the Sale, ’twill make good Tailors measures; I am well I thank you.

Wid. By my troth the Gentleman has stew’d him in his own Sawce, I shall love him for’t.

Sav. I know not where I am, I am so glad:  your worship is the welcom’st man alive; upon my knees I bid you welcome home:  here has been such a hurry, such a din, such dismal Drinking, Swearing and Whoring, ’thas almost made me mad:  we have all liv’d in a continual Turnbal-street; Sir, blest be Heaven, that sent you safe again, now shall I eat and go to bed again.

Elder Lo. Brother dismiss these people.

Young Lo. Captain be gone a while, meet me at my old Randevouse in the evening, take your small Poet with you.  Mr. Morecraft you were best go prattle with your learned Counsel, I shall preserve your mony, I was couzen’d when time was, we are quit Sir.

Wid. Better and better still.

Elder Lo. What is this fellow, Brother?

Young Lo. The thirsty Usurer that supt my Land off.

Elder Lo. What does he tarry for?

Young Lo. Sir to be Landlord of your House and State:  I was bold to make a little sale Sir.

More. Am I overreach’d? if there be Law I’le hamper ye.

Elder Lo. Prethee be gone, and rave at home, thou art so base a fool I cannot laugh at thee:  Sirrah, this comes of couzening, home and spare, eat Reddish till you raise your sums again.  If you stir far in this, I’le have you whipt, your ears nail’d for intelligencing o’the Pillory, and your goods forfeit:  you are a stale couzener, leave my house:  no more.

More. A pox upon your house.  Come Widow, I shall yet hamper this young Gamester.

Wid. Good twelve i’th’ hundred keep your way, I am not for your diet, marry in your own Tribe Jew, and get a Broker.

Young Lo. ’Tis well said Widow:  will you jog on Sir?

More. Yes, I will go, but ’tis no matter whither:  But when I trust a wild Fool, and a Woman, May I lend Gratis, and build Hospitals.