Unc. You must be milder to him.

Lance. That’s as he makes his game.

Unc. Intreat him lovingly, and make him feel.

Lance. I’le pinch him to the bones else.

[Valen. Within.] And tell the Gentleman, I’le be with him presently, say I want money too, I must not fail boy.

Lance. You’l want Cloaths, I hope.

Enter Valentine.

Val. Bid the young Courtier repair to me anon, I’le read to him.

Unc. He comes, [b]e diligent, but not too rugged, start him, but affright him not.

Val. Phew, are you there?

Unc. We come to see you Nephew, be not angry.

Val. Why do you dog me thus, with these strange people? why, all the world shall never make me rich more, nor master of these troubles.

Tenants. We beseech you for our poor Childrens sake.

Val. Who bid you get ’em? have you not threshing work enough, but Children must be bang’d out o’th’ sheaf too? other men with all their delicates, and healthful diets, can get but wind eggs:  you with a clove of Garlick, a piece of Cheese would break a Saw, and sowre Milk, can mount like Stallions, and I must maintain these tumblers.

Lance. You ought to maintain us, we have maintained you, and when you slept provided for you; who bought the Silk you wear?  I think our labours; reckon, you’ll find it so:  who found your Horses perpetual pots of Ale, maintain’d your Taverns, and who extol’d you in the Half-crown-boxes, where you might sit and muster all the Beauties? we had no hand in these; no, we are all puppies?  Your Tenants base vexations.

Val. Very well, Sir.

Lance. Had you Land, Sir, and honest men to serve your purposes, honest and faithful, and will you run away from ’em, betray your self, and your poor Tribe to misery; mortgage all us, like old Cloaks; where will you hunt next? you had a thousand Acres, fair and open:  The Kings-Bench is enclos’d, there’s no good riding, the Counter is full of thorns and brakes, take heed Sir, and boggs, you’l quickly find what broth they’re made of.

Val. Y’are short and pithy.

Lance. They say y’are a fine Gentleman, and of excellent judgement, they report you have a wit; keep your self out o’th’ Rain, and take your Cloak with you, which by interpretation is your State, Sir, or I shall think your fame belied you, you have money, and may have means.

Val. I prethee leave prating, does my good lye within thy brain to further, or my undoing in thy pity? go, go, get you home, there whistle to your Horses, and let them edifie; away, sow Hemp to hang your selves withal:  what am I to you, or you to me; am I your Landlord, puppies?

Unc. This is uncivil.

Val. More unmerciful you, to vex me with these Bacon Broth and Puddings, they are the walking shapes of all my sorrows.