Sav.  Next it is my will, that he be furnished (as my Brother) with Attendance, Apparel, and the obedience of my people.

Young Lo.  Steward this is as plain as your old Minikin-breeches.  Your wisdom will relent now, will it not?  Be mollified or—­you understand me Sir, proceed?

Sav.  Next, that my Steward keep his place, and power, and bound my Brother’s wildness with his care.

Young Lo.  I’le hear no more of this Apocrypha, bind it by it self Steward.

Sav.  This is your Brothers will, and as I take it, he makes no mention of such company as you would draw unto you.  Captains of Gallyfoists, such as in a clear day have seen Callis, fellows that have no more of God, than their Oaths come to:  they wear swords to reach fire at a Play, and get there the oyl’d end of a Pipe, for their Guerdon:  then the remnant of your Regiment, are wealthy Tobacco-Marchants, that set up with one Ounce, and break for three:  together with a Forlorn hope of Poets, and all these look like Carthusians, things without linnen:  Are these fit company for my Masters Brother?

Young Lo.  I will either convert thee (O thou Pagan Steward) or presently confound thee and thy reckonings, who’s there?  Call in the Gentlemen.

Sav.  Good Sir.

Young Lo.  Nay, you shall know both who I am, and where I am.

Sav.  Are you my Masters Brother?

Young Lo.  Are you the sage Master Steward, with a face like an old Ephemerides?

Enter his Comrades, Captain, Traveller, &c.

Sav.  Then God help us all I say.

Young Lo.  I, and ’tis well said my old peer of France:  welcome Gentlemen, welcome Gentlemen; mine own dear Lads y’are richly welcome.  Know this old Harry Groat.

Cap.  Sir I will take your love.

Sav.  Sir, you will take my Purse.

Cap.  And study to continue it.

Sav.  I do believe you.

Trav.  Your honorable friend and Masters Brother, hath given you to us for a worthy fellow, and so we hugg you Sir.

Sav.  Has given himself into the hands of Varlets, not to be carv’d out.  Sir, are these the pieces?

Young Lo.  They are the Morals of the Age, the vertues, men made of gold.

Sav.  Of your gold you mean Sir.

Young Lo.  This is a man of War, and cryes go on, and wears his colours.

Sav.  In’s nose.

Young Lo.  In the fragrant field.  This is a Traveller Sir, knows men and manners, and has plow’d up the Sea so far till both the Poles have knockt, has seen the Sun take Coach, and can distinguish the colour of his Horses, and their kinds, and had a Flanders-Mare leapt there.

Sav.  ’Tis much.

Tra.  I have seen more Sir.