l's a new stoupe.

_Elder Lo._ I dare not Sir, by no means.

_Young Lo._ Have you any mind to a wench? I would fain gratifie you for
the pains you took Sir.

_Elder Lo._ As little as to the t'other.

_Young Lo._ If you find any stirring do but say so.

_Elder Lo._ Sir, you are too bounteous, when I feel that itching, you
shall asswage it Sir, before another: this only and Farewell Sir. Your
Brother when the storm was most extream, told all about him, he left a
will which lies close behind a Chimney in the matted Chamber: and so as
well Sir, as you have made me able, I take my leave.

_Young Lo._ Let us imbrace him all: if you grow drie before you end your
business, pray take a baite here, I have a fresh hogshead for you.

_Savil._ You shall neither will nor chuse Sir. My Master is a wonderfull
fine Gentleman, has a fine state, a very fine state Sir, I am his Steward
Sir, and his man.

_Elder Lo._ Would you were your own sir, as I left you. Well I must cast
about, or all sinks.

_Savil._ Farewell Gentleman, Gentleman, Gentleman.

_Elder Lo._ What would you with me sir?

_Savil._ Farewell Gentleman.

_Elder Lo._ O sleep Sir, sleep. [_Exit_ Elder Lo.

_Young Lo._ Well boyes, you see what's faln, let's in and drink, and give
thanks for it.

_Capt._ Let's give thanks for it.

_Young Lo._ Drunk as I live.

_Savil._ Drunk as I live boyes.

_Young Lo._ Why, now thou art able to discharge thine office, and cast up
a reckoning of some weight; I will be knighted, for my state will bear it,
'tis sixteen hundred boyes: off with your husks, I'le skin you all in
Sattin.

_Capt._ O sweet _Loveless_!

_Savil._ All in Sattin? O sweet _Loveless_!

_Young Lo_. March in my noble Compeeres: and this my Countess shall be led
by two: and so proceed we to the Will.
[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Morecraft _the_ Usurer, _and_ Widow.

_Morec_. And Widow as I say be your own friend: your husband left you
wealthy, I and wise, continue so sweet duck, continue so. Take heed of
young smooth Varlets, younger Brothers: they are worms that will eat
through your bags: they are very Lightning, that with a flash or two will
melt your money, and never singe your purse-strings: they are Colts, wench
Colts, heady and dangerous, till we take 'em up, and make 'em fit for
Bonds: look upon me, I have had, and have yet matter of moment girle,
matter of moment; you may meet with a worse back, I'le not commend it.

_Wid_. Nor I neither Sir