Die.

     My learned Sir, ’pray ye sit:  I am bold to send for ye,
     To take a care of what I leave.

     Lop.

     Do ye hear that?

     Ars.

     Play the Knave finely.

     Die.

     So I will, I warrant ye,
     And carefully.

     Bar.

     ’Pray ye do not trouble him,
     You see he’s weak and has a wandring fancy.

     Die.

     My honest Neighbours, weep not, I must leave ye,
     I cannot always bear ye company,
     We must drop still, there is no remedy: 
     ’Pray ye Master Curate, will ye write my Testament,
     And write it largely it may be remembred,
     And be witness to my Legacies, good Gentlemen;
     Your Worship I do make my full Executor,
     You are a man of wit and understanding: 
     Give me a cup of Wine to raise my Spirits,
     For I speak low:  I would before these Neighbours
     Have ye to swear, Sir, that you will see it executed,
     And what I give let equally be rendred
     For my souls health.

     Bar.

     I vow it truly, Neighbours,
     Let not that trouble ye, before all these,
     Once more I give my Oath.

     Die.

     Then set me higher,
     And pray ye come near me all.

     Lop.

     We are ready for ye.

     Mil.

     Now spur the Ass, and get our friend time.

     Die.

     First then,
     After I have given my body to the worms,
     (For they must be serv’d first, they are seldom cozen’d.)

     Lop.

     Remember your Parish, Neighbour.

     Die.

     You speak truly,
     I do remember it, a lewd vile Parish,
     And pray it may be mended:  To the poor of it,
     (Which is to all the Parish) I give nothing,
     For nothing, unto nothing, is most natural,
     Yet leave as much space, as will build an Hospital,
     Their Children may pray for me.

     Bar.

     What do you give to it?

     Die.

     Set down two thousand Duckets.

     Bar.

     ’Tis a good gift,
     And will be long remembred.

     Die.

     To your worship,
     (Because you must take pains to see all finish’d)
     I give two thousand more, it may be three, Sir,
     A poor gratuity for your pains-taking.

     Bar.

     These are large sums.

     Lop.

     Nothing to him that has ’em.

     Die.

     To my old Master Vicar, I give five hundred,
     (Five hundred and five hundred are too few, Sir)
     But there be more to serve.