Lop.

     Be gone Neighbours,
     Here are some Gentlemen:  be gone good Neighbours,
     Be gone, and labour to redeem my favour,
     No more words, but be gone:  these two are Gentlemen,
     No company for crusty-handed fellows.

     Die.

     We will stay for a year or two, and try ye.

     Lop.

     Fill all your hearts with joy, we will stay with ye,
     Be gone, no more; I take your pastimes graciously.

[Exeunt Parishioners.

     Would ye with me, my friends?

     Ars.

     We would look upon ye,
     For me thinks ye look lovely.

     Lop.

     Ye have no Letters? 
     Nor any kind Remembrances?

     Mil.

     Remembrances?

     Lop.

     From Nova Hispania, or some part remote, Sir,
     You look like Travel’d men:  may be some old friends
     That happily I have forgot; some Signiours
     In China or Cataya; some Companions—­

     Die.

     In the Moguls Court, or else-where.

     Ars.

     They are mad sure.

     Lop.

     Ye came not from Peru? do they look, Diego,
     As if they had some mystery about ’em? 
     Another Don Alonzo now?

     Die.

     I marry,
     And so much mony, Sir, from one you know not,
     Let it be who it will.

     Lop.

They have gracious favours.  Would ye be private? Mil.  There’s no need on’t, Sir, We come to bring ye a Remembrance from a Merchant.

     Lop.

     ’Tis very well, ’tis like I know him.

     Ars.

      No, Sir,
     I do not think ye do.

     Lop.

      A new mistake, Diego,
     Let’s carry it decently.

     Ars.

     We come to tell ye,
     You have received great sums from a young Factor
     They call Leandro, that has rob’d his Master,
     Rob’d him, and run away.

     Die.

     Let’s keep close, Master;
     This news comes from a cold Country.

     Lop.

     By my faith it freezes.

     Mil.

     Is not this true? do you shrink now good-man Curat? 
     Do I not touch ye?

     Lop.

     We have a hundred Duckets
     Yet left, we do beseech ye, Sir—­

     Mil.

     You’ll hang both.

     Lop.

     One may suffice.

     Die.

     I will not hang alone, Master,
     I had the least part, you shall hang the highest. 
     Plague o’ this Tiveria, and the Letter,
     The Devil sent it post, to pepper us,
     From Nova Hispania, we shall hang at home now.