Enter Boy.

Boy.  Sir, Mr Bibber your tailor’s below, and desires to speak with you.

Fail.  He’s an honest fellow, and a fashionable; he shall set thee forth, I warrant thee.

Burr.  Ay; but where’s the money for this, dear heart?

Fail.  Well, but what think you of being put into a suit of clothes without money? [Aside.

Burr.  You speak of miracles.

Fail.  Do you not know Will Bibber’s humour?

Burr.  Pr’ythee, what have I to do with his humour?

Fail.  Break but a jest, and he’ll beg to trust thee for a suit; nay, he will contribute to his own destruction, and give thee occasions to make one.  He has been my artificer these three years; and, all the while, I have lived upon his favourable apprehension.  Boy, conduct him up. [Exit Boy.

Burr.  But what am I the better for this?  I ne’er made jest in all my life.

Fail. A bare clinch will serve the turn; a car-wichet, a quarter-quibble, or a pun.

Burr.  Wit from a Low Country soldier!  One, that has conversed with none but dull Dutchmen these ten years!  What an unreasonable rogue art thou? why, I tell thee, ’tis as difficult to me, as to pay him ready money.

Fail.  Come, you shall be ruled for your own good; I’ll throw the clothes over you to help meditation.  And, upon the first opportunity, start you up, and surprise him with a jest.

Burr.  Well, I think this impossible to be done:  but, however, I’ll attempt. [Lies down, FAILER covers him.

Fail.  Husht! he’s coming up.

Enter BIBBER.

Bib.  ’Morrow, Mr Failer:  What, I warrant you think I come a dunning now?

Fail.  No, I vow to gad, Will; I have a better opinion of thy wit, than to think thou would’st come to so little purpose.

Bib.  Pretty well that:  No, no, my business is to drink my morning’s-draught in sack with you.

Fail.  Will not ale serve thy turn, Will?

Bib.  I had too much of that last night; I was a little disguised, as they say.

Fail.  Why disguised?  Hadst thou put on a clean band, or washed thy face lately?  Those are thy disguises, Bibber.

Bib.  Well, in short, I was drunk; damnably drunk with ale; great hogan-mogan bloody ale:  I was porterly drunk, and that I hate of all things in nature.

Burr, rising.] And of all things in nature I love it best.

Bib.  Art thou there, i’faith? and why, old boy?

Burr.  Because, when I am porterly drunk, I can carry myself.

Bib.  Ha, ha, boy.

Fail.  This porter brings sad news to you, Will; you must trust him for a suit of clothes, as bad as ’tis:  Come, he’s an honest fellow, and loves the king.