Ars.

     A Capias from my Surgeon, and my Silk-man!

     Bar.

     Your carefull makers, but they have mar’d your diet. 
     Stir not, your Swords are gone:  there’s no avoiding me,
     And these are Algazeirs, do you hear that passing bell?

     Lop.

     A strong Citation, bless me!

     Bar.

     Out with your Beads, Curate,
     The Devil’s in your dish:  bell, book, and Candle.

     Lop.

     A warrant to appear before the Judges! 
     I must needs rise, and turn to th’ wall.

     Bar.

     Ye need not,
     Your fear I hope will make ye find your Breeches.

     All.

     We are betrai’d.

     Bar.

     Invited do not wrong me,
     Fall to, good Guests, you have diligent men about ye,
     Ye shall want nothing that may persecute ye,
     These will not see ye start; Have I now found ye? 
     Have I requited ye?  You fool’d the Lawyer,
     And thought it meritorious to abuse him,
     A thick ram-headed knave:  you rid, you spur’d him,
     And glorified your wits, the more ye wronged him;
     Within this hour ye shall have all your Creditours,
     A second dish of new debts, come upon ye,
     And new invitements to the whip, Don Diego,
     And Excommunications for the learned Curate,
     A Masque of all your furies shall dance to ye.

     Ars.

     You dare not use us thus?

     Bar.

     You shall be bob’d, Gentlemen,
     Stir, and as I have a life, ye goe to prison,
     To prison, without pitie instantly,
     Before ye speak another word to prison. 
     I have a better Guard without, that waits;
     Do you see this man, Don Curate? ’tis a Paratour
     That comes to tell ye a delightfull story
     Of an old whore ye have, and then to teach ye
     What is the penaltie; Laugh at me now Sir,
     What Legacie would ye bequeath me now,
     (And pay it on the nail?) to fly my fury?

     Lop.

     O gentle Sir.

     Bar.

     Do’st thou hope I will be gentle,
     Thou foolish unconsiderate Curate?

     Lop.

     Let me goe Sir.

     Bar.

     I’le see thee hang first.

     Lop.

     And as I am a true Vicar,
     Hark in your ear, hark softly—­

     Bar.

     No, no bribery. 
     I’le have my swindge upon thee; Sirra?  Rascal? 
     You Lenten Chaps, you that lay sick, and mockt me,
     Mockt me abominably, abused me lewdly,
     I’le make thee sick at heart, before I leave thee,
     And groan, and dye indeed,