Luce. She has put them off a month, th[e]y dare not see her, believe me Mistris, what I hear I tell you.

Isab. Is this true, wench? gone on so short a warning! what trick is this? she never told me of it, it must not be, sirra, attend me presently, you know I have been a carefull friend unto you, attend me in the Hall, and next be faithful, cry not, we shall not go.

Short. Her Coach may crack.

Enter Valentine, Francisco, and Lance.

Val. Which way to live! how darest thou come to town, to ask such an idle question?

Fran. Me thinks ’tis necessary, unless you could restore that Annuitie you have tipled up in Taverns.

Val. Where hast thou been, and how brought up Francisco, that thou talkest thus out of France? thou wert a pretty fellow, and of a handsom knowledge; who has spoiled thee?

Lan. He that has spoil’d himself, to make him sport, and by Copie, will spoil all comes near him:  buy but a Glass, if you be yet so wealthy, and look there who?

Val. Well said, old Copihold.

Lan. My heart’s good Freehold Sir, and so you’l find it, this Gentleman’s your Brother, your hopeful Brother, for there is no hope of you, use him thereafter.

Val. E’ne as well as I use my self, what would’st thou have Frank?

Fran. Can you procure me a hundred pound?

Lan. Hark what he saies to you, O try your wits, they say you are excellent at it, for your Land has lain long bedrid, and unsensible.

Fran. And I’le forget all wrongs, you see my state, and to what wretchedness your will has brought me; but what it may be, by this benefit, if timely done, and like a noble Brother, both you and I may feel, and to our comforts.

Val. (A hundred pound!) dost thou know what thou hast said Boy?

Fran. I said a hundred pound.

Val. Thou hast said more than any man can justifie, believe it:  procure a hundred pounds!  I say to thee there’s no such sum in nature, forty shillings there may be now i’th’ Mint and that’s a Treasure, I have seen five pound, but let me tell it, and ’tis as wonderful as Calves with five Legs; here’s five shillings, Frank, the harvest of five weeks, and a good crop too, take it, and pay thy first fruits, I’le come down and eat it out.

Fran. ’Tis patience must meet with you Sir, not love.

Lanc. Deal roundly, and leave these fiddle faddles.

Val. Leave thy prating, thou thinkest thou art a notable wise fellow, thou and thy rotten Sparrow Hawk; two of the reverent.

Lanc. I think you are mad, or if you be not, will be, with the next moon, what would you have him do?

Val. How?

Lanc. To get money first, that’s to live, you have shewed him how to want.