Const.  O, servant, have I spied you? let me run into your arms.

Fail.  I renounce my lady Constance:  I vow to gad, I renounce her.

Tim.  To your task, Burr.

Enter NONSUCH and ISABELLA.

Const.  Hold, gentlemen! no sign of quarrel.

Non.  O, friends!  I think I shall go mad with grief:  I have lost more money.

Lov.  Would I had it:  that’s all the harm I wish myself.  Your servant, madam; I go about the business.

Exit LOVEBY.

Non.  What! does he take no pity on me?

Const.  Pr’ythee, moan him, Isabella.

Isa.  Alas, alas, poor uncle! could they find in their hearts to rob him!

Non.  Five hundred pounds, out of poor six thousand pounds a-year!  I, and mine, are undone for ever.

Fail.  Your own house, you think, is clear, my lord?

Const.  I dare answer for all there, as much as for myself.

Burr.  Oh, that he would but think that Loveby had it!

Fail.  If you’ll be friends with me, I’ll try what I can persuade him to.

Burr.  Here’s my hand, I will, dear heart.

Fail.  Your own house being clear, my lord, I am apt to suspect this Loveby for such a person.  Did you mark how abruptly he went out?

Non.  He did indeed, Mr Failer.  But why should I suspect him? his carriage is fair, and his means great; he could never live after this rate, if it were not.

Fail.  This still renders him the more suspicious:  He has no land, to my knowledge.

Burr.  Well said, mischief. [Aside.

Const.  My father’s credulous, and this rogue has found the blind side of him; would Loveby heard him! [To ISABELLA.

Fail.  He has no means, and he loses at play; so that, for my part, I protest to gad, I am resolved he picks locks for his living.

Burr.  Nay, to my knowledge, he picks locks.

Tim.  And to mine.

Fail.  No longer ago than last night he met me in the dark, and offered to dive into my pockets.

Non.  That’s a main argument for suspicion.

Fail.  I remember once, when the keys of the Exchequer were lost in the Rump-time, he was sent for upon an extremity, and, egad, he opens me all the locks with the blade-bone of a breast of mutton.

Non.  Who, this Loveby?

Fail.  This very Loveby.  Another time, when we had sate up very late at ombre in the country, and were hungry towards morning, he plucks me out (I vow to gad I tell you no lie) four ten-penny nails from the dairy lock with his teeth, fetches me out a mess of milk, and knocks me ’em in again with his head, upon reputation.

Isa.  Thou boy!