1 Mer. Yes, and must have fair play: 
There is no living here else; one hour’s failing
Fails us of all our friends, of all our credits: 
For my part, I would stay, but my wants tell me,
I must wrong others in’t.

Gos. No mercy in ye!

2 Mer. ’Tis foolish to depend on others mercy: 
Keep your self right, and even cut your cloth, Sir,
According to your calling, you have liv’d here,
In Lord-like Prodigality, high, and open,
And now ye find what ’tis:  the liberal spending
The Summer of your Youth, which you should glean in,
And like the labouring Ant, make use and gain of,
Has brought this bitter, stormy Winter on ye,
And now you cry.

3 Mer. Alas, before your Poverty,
We were no men, of no mark, no endeavour;
You stood alone, took up all trade, all business
Running through your hands, scarce a Sail at Sea,
But loaden with your Goods:  we poor weak Pedlers;
When by your leave, and much intreaty to it,
We could have stowage for a little Cloath,
Or a few Wines, put off, and thank your Worship. 
Lord, how the World’s chang’d with ye? now I hope, Sir,
We shall have Sea-room.

Gos. Is my misery
Become my scorn too! have ye no humanity? 
No part of men left? are all the Bounties in me
To you, and to the Town, turn’d my reproaches?

4 Mer. Well, get your moneys ready:  ’tis but 2 hours; We shall protest ye else, and suddenly.

Gos. But two days.

1 Mer. Not an hour, ye know the hazard. [Exeunt.

Gos. How soon my light’s put out! hard hearted Bruges!  Within thy Walls may never honest Merchant Venture his fortunes more:  O my poor Wench too.

Enter Gerrard.

Ger. Good fortune, Master.

Gos. Thou mistak’st me, Clause, I am not worth thy Blessing.

Ger. Still a sad man!

Enter Higgen and Prigg, like Porters.  No belief gentle Master? come bring it in then, And now believe your Beadsman.

Gos. Is this certain?  Or dost thou work upon my troubled sense?

Ger. ’Tis gold, Sir, Take it and try it.

Gos. Certainly ’tis treasure; Can there be yet this Blessing?

Ger. Cease your wonder, You shall not sink, for ne’r a sowst Flap-dragon, For ne’r a pickl’d Pilcher of ’em all, Sir, ’Tis there, your full sum, a hundred thousand crowns:  And good sweet Master, now be merry; pay ’em, Pay the poor pelting Knaves, that know no goodness:  And chear your heart up handsomely.

Gos. Good Clause, How cam’st thou by this mighty Sum? if naughtily, I must not take it of thee, ’twill undo me.

Ger. Fear not, you have it by as honest means As though your father gave it:  Sir, you know not To what a mass, the little we get daily, Mounts in seven years; we beg it for Heavens charity, And to the same good we are bound to render it.