the world knows
there's no want; all Gentlemen that love Society, love me; all Purses
that wit and pleasure opens, are my Tenants; every mans Cloaths fit me,
the next fair lodging is but my next remove, and when I please to be
more eminent, and take the Air, a piece is levied, and a Coach prepared,
and I go I care not whither, what need state here?

_Unc._ But say these means were honest, will they last, Sir?

_Val._ Far longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer, should I take
ought of you, 'tis true, I beg'd now, or which is worse than that, I
stole a kindness, and which is worst of all, I lost my way in't; your
mind's enclosed, nothing lies open nobly, your very thoughts are Hinds
that work on nothing but daily sweat and trouble: were my way so full of
dirt as this, 'tis true I'd shift it; are my acquaintance Grasiers? but
Sir, know, no man that I am allied to, in my living, but makes it equal,
whether his own use, or my necessity pull first, nor is this forc'd, but
the meer quality and poisure of goodness, and do you think I venture
nothing equal?

_Unc._ You pose me Cousin.

_Val._ What's my knowledge Uncle, is't not worth mony? what's my
understanding, travel, reading, wit, all these digested, my daily making
men, some to speak, that too much flegm had frozen up, some that spoke
too much, to hold their peace, and put their tongues to pensions, some
to wear their cloaths, and some to keep 'em, these are nothing Uncle;
besides these wayes, to teach the way of nature, a manly love, community
to all that are deservers, not examining how much, or what's done for
them, 'tis wicked, and such a one like you, chews his thoughts [double],
making 'em only food for his repentance.

_Enter two_ Servants.

_1 Ser._ This cloak and hat Sir, and my Masters love.

_Val._ Commend's to thy Master, and take that, and leave 'em at my
lodging.

_1 Ser._ I shall do it Sir.

_Val._ I do not think of these things.

_2 Ser._ Please you Sir, I have gold here for you.

_Val._ Give it me, drink that and commend me to thy Master; look
you Uncle, do I beg these?

_Unc._ No sure, 'tis your worth, Sir.

_Val._ 'Tis like enough, but pray satisfie me, are not these ways
as honest as persecuting the starved inheritance, with musty Corn, the
very rats were fain to run away from, or felling rotten wood by the
pound, like spices, which Gentlemen do after burn by th' ounces? do not
I know your way of feeding beasts with grains, and windy