1. 2.  B. There, there.

Prig. I thank you, Thank ye heartily:  when shall I pay ye?

All B. Ha, ha, ha, by th’ Mass this was a fine trick.

Prig. A merry sleight toy:  but now I’ll show your Worships A trick indeed.

Hig. Mark him well now my Masters.

Prig. Here are three balls,
These balls shall be three bullets,
One, two, and three:  ascentibus, malentibus.

Presto, be gone:  they are vanish’d:  fair play, Gentlemen.  Now these three, like three Bullets, from your three Noses Will I pluck presently:  fear not, no harm Boys,

Titere, tu patule.

1 B. Oh, oh, oh.

Prig. Recubans sub jermlne fagi.

2 B. Ye pull too hard; ye pull too hard.

Prig. Stand fair then:  Silvertramtrim-tram.

3 B. Hold, hold, hold.

Prig. Come aloft, bullets three, with a whim-wham.  Have ye their Moneys?

Hig. Yes, yes.

1 B. Oh rare Jugler!

2 B. Oh admirable Jugler!

Prig. One trick more yet; Hey, come aloft; sa, sa, flim, flum, taradumbis?  East, West, North, South, now fly like Jack with a bumbis.  Now all your money’s gone; pray search your pockets.

1 B. Humh.

2 B. He.

3 B. The Devil a penny’s here!

Prig. This was a rare trick.

1 B. But ’twould be a far rarer to restore it.

Prig. I’ll do ye that too; look upon me earnestly, And move not any ways your eyes from this place, This Button here? pow, whir, whiss, shake your pockets.

1 B. By th’ Mass ’tis here again, boys.

Prig. Rest ye merry; My first trick has paid me.

All B. I, take it, take it, And take some drink too.

Prig. Not a drop now I thank you; Away, we are discover’d else. [Exit.

Enter Gerrard like a blind Aqua vitae man, and a Boy, singing the Song.

Bring out your Cony-skins, fair maids to me,
And hold ’em fair that I may see;
Grey, black, and blue:  for your smaller skins,
I’ll give ye looking-glasses, pins: 
And for your whole Coney, here’s ready, ready Money. 
Come Gentle Jone, do thou begin
With thy black, black, black Coney-skin. 
And Mary then, and Jane will follow,
With their silver hair’d skins, and their yellow. 
The white Cony-skin, I will not lay by,
For though it be faint, ’tis fair to the eye;
The grey, it is warm, but yet for my Money,
Give me the bonny, bonny black Cony. 
Come away fair Maids, your skins will decay: 
Come, and take money, maids, put your ware away. 
Cony-skins, Cony-skins, have ye any Cony-skins,
I have fine bracelets, and fine silver pins.