Host. Why, I was in the very nick of time.  I am older than thou art.

Will. Thy experience did ever squint, and the obliquity of the mind grows worse with years.  Yet I grant thee, as it hath happened, thou hast been equal to the occasion, which is true greatness, and that thou art great no one who looks at thee can deny.  I am glad that Wyckoff hath at length paid his long reckoning.

Host. But he hath not, he hath not!

Will. Did you not see them take him?—­

Host. Tis all very well to jest, but I have often seen, that when a poor man is defrauded, first there is no justice whatsoever, and again, if there be any, it is in this wise, that, while the wrong-doer suffers by the Law, the Law swallows up the simple desired thing, which is restitution.  The Law takes the money, the Law disposes of the chattels, and finally, Jack Ketch, who is the Law’s Ancient and most grim functionary, lays claim to the clothes.  There was more real justice, friend Will, in the little finger of the Law of Moses, than in the whole right arm and sword of our boasted English trull, and you may throw her scales and blind-man’s-buff frippery into the bargain.

Will. Stop, stop, thou art struck with an apoplexy of sense.  Wisdom peeps through both thine eyes, like the unexpected apparition of a bed-ridden old woman at a garret window.  Thou art the very owl of Minerva, and the little bill, that thou ever carriest with thee, is given thee for this purpose, to peck at man’s frailty in the matter of repayment.  Come, thou art in danger.  I must have thee bled.

Host. I tell thee I have bled, as much as e’er a kettle-pated fellow of them all in these wars.  I am defunct of nearly all my substance.

Will. Substance?  Why there is scarcely a doorway thou canst pass through; and if one of Hell’s gate-posts be not put back a foot or two, thou wilt be left, at thy latter end, like a huge undelivered parcel in the lumber-room of Charon.

Host. I know not any carrier of that name, but ’tis ill twitting a man, when he is in earnest, and did I not love thee, and were this not a day of rejoicing, thou shouldest drink no more out of mine own silver flagon.

Will. Nay, I meant not to offend thee.  Come, we part soon.  My master will pay thee thrice that thou hast lost by this captain.

Host. Pish!  I care not for ten times the money.  Thou understandest not the feelings of a tradesman.

Will. Come along, come along.  The boat stays under the bridge.  Mistress Barbara is already on board the ship, and swears that tar is the perfumery of Satan.  Come, I may never see thee again, and although we shall not moisten our parting with tears, it would scarcely, methinks, be appropriate that we should say to each other “God be with you!” thirsting. [Exeunt.]