Enter Valentine, Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain.

Val. Upbraid me with your benefits, you Pilchers, you shotten, sold, slight fellows? was’t not I that undertook you first from empty barrels, and brought those barking mouths that gaped like bung-holes to utter sence? where got you understanding? who taught you manners and apt carriage to rank your selves? who filled you in fit Taverns? were those born with your worships when you came hither? what brought you from the Universities of moment matter to allow you, besides your small base sentences?

Bell. ’Tis well, Sir.

Val. Long Cloaks with two-hand-rapiers, boot-hoses with penny-poses, and twenty fools opinions, who looked on you but piping rites that knew you would be prizing, and Prentices in Paul’s Church-yard, that scented your want of Britains Books.

Enter Widow, Luce, Hairbrain.

Font. This cannot save you.

Val. Taunt my integrity you Whelps?

Bell. You may talk the stock we gave you out, but see no further.

Hair. You tempt our patience, we have found you out, and what your trust comes to, ye’re well feathered, thank us, and think now of an honest course, ’tis time; men now begin to look, and narrowly into your tumbling tricks, they are stale.

Wid. Is not that he?

Luce. ’Tis he.

Wid. Be still and mark him.

Val. How miserable will these poor wretches be when I forsake ’em! but things have their necessities, I am sorry, to what a vomit must they turn again, now to their own dear Dunghil breeding; never hope after I cast you off, you men of Motley, you most undone things below pity, any that has a soul and six-pence dares relieve you, my name shall bar that blessing, there’s your Cloak, Sir, keep it close to you, it may yet preserve you a fortnight longer from the fool; your Hat, pray be covered, and there’s the Sattin that your Worship sent me, will serve you at a Sizes yet.

Fount. Nay, faith Sir, you may e’ne rub these out now.

Val. No such relique, nor the least rag of such a sordid weakness shall keep me warm, these Breeches are mine own, purchased, and paid for, without your compassion, a Christian Breeches founded in Black-Friers, and so I’le maintain ’em.

Hare. So they seem, Sir.

Val. Only the thirteen shillings in these Breeches, and the odd groat, I take it, shall be yours, Sir, a mark to know a Knave by, pray preserve it, do not displease more, but take it presently, now help me off with my Boots.

Hare. We are no Grooms, Sir.

Val. For once you shall be, do it willingly, or by this hand I’le make you.

Bell. To our own, Sir, we may apply our hands.

Val. There’s your Hangers, you may deserve a strong pair, and a girdle will hold you without buckles; now I am perfect, and now the proudest of your worships tell me I am beholding to you.