Val. ’Slife how do I live? why, what dull fool would ask that question? three hundred three pilds more, I and live bravely:  the better half o’th’ Town live most gloriously, and ask them what states they have, or what Annuities, or when they pray for seasonable Harvests:  thou hast a handsome Wit, stir into the world, Frank, stir, stir for shame, thou art a pretty Scholar:  ask how to live? write, write, write any thing, the World’s a fine believing World, write News.

Lan. Dragons in Sussex, Sir, or fiery Battels seen in the Air at Aspurge.

Val. There’s the way Frank, and in the tail of these, fright me the Kingdom with a sharp Prognostication, that shall scowr them, Dearth upon Dearth, like leven Taffaties, predictions of Sea-breaches, Wars, and want of Herrings on our Coast, with bloudy Noses.

Lan. Whirl-winds, that shall take off the top of Grantham Steeple, and clap it on Pauls, and after these, a Lenvoy to the City for their sins.

Val. Probatum est, thou canst not want a pension, go switch me up a Covey of young Scholars, there’s twenty nobles, and two loads of Coals, are not these ready wayes?  Cosmography thou art deeply read in, draw me a Map from the Mermaid, I mean a midnight Map to scape the Watches, and such long sensless examinations, and Gentlemen shall feed thee, right good Gentlemen, I cannot stay long.

Lan. You have read learnedly, and would you have him follow these Megera’s, did you begin with Ballads?

Fran. Well, I will leave you, I see my wants are grown ridiculous, yours may be so, I will not curse you neither; you may think, when these wanton fits are over, who bred me, and who ruined me, look to your self, Sir, a providence I wait on.

Val. Thou art passionate, hast thou been brought up with Girls?

Enter Shorthose with a bag.

Short. Rest you merry, Gentlemen.

Val. Not so merry as you suppose, Sir.

Short. Pray stay a while, and let me take a view of you, I may put my Spoon into the wrong Pottage-pot else.

Val. Why, wilt thou muster us?

Short. No, you are not he, you are a thought too handsome.

Lan. Who wouldst thou speak withal, why dost thou peep so?

Short. I am looking birds nests, I can find none in your bush beard, I would speak with you, black Gentleman.

Fran. With me, my friend?

Short. Yes sure, and the best friend, Sir, it seems you spake withal this twelve-month, Gentleman, there’s money for you.

Val. How?

Short. There’s none for you, Sir, be not so brief, not a penny; law how he itches at it, stand off, you stir my colour.

Lan. Take it, ’tis money.

Short. You are too quick too, first be sure you have it, you seem to be a Faulkoner, but a foolish one.