young heirs like Trouts, and let thy Chimnies smoke. Feed men of war, live
and be honest, and be saved yet.

_Mor._ I thank you worthie Captain for your counsel. You keep your
Chimnies smoking there, your nostrils, and when you can, you feed a man of
War, this makes you not a Baron, but a bare one: and how or when you shall
be saved, let the Clark o'th' companie (you have commanded) have a just
care of.

_Poet._ The man is much moved. Be not angrie Sir, but as the Poet sings,
let your displeasure be a short furie, and goe out. You have spoke home,
and bitterly, to me Sir. Captain take truce, the Miser is a tart and a
wittie whorson--

_Cap._ Poet, you feign perdie, the wit of this man lies in his fingers
ends, he must tell all; his tongue fills his mouth like a neats tongue,
and only serves to lick his hungrie chaps after a purchase: his brains and
brimstone are the devils diet to a fat usurers head: To her Knight, to
her: clap her aboard, and stow her. Where's the brave Steward?

_Savil._ Here's your poor friend, and _Savil_ Sir.

_Capt._ Away, th'art rich in ornaments of nature. First in thy face, thou
hast a serious face, a betting, bargaining, and saving face, a rich face,
pawn it to the Usurer; a face to kindle the compassion of the most
ignorant and frozen Justice.

_Savil._ 'Tis such I dare not shew it shortly sir.

_Capt._ Be blithe and bonny steward: Master _Morecraft_, Drink to this man
of reckoning?

_Mor._ Here's e'ne to him.

_Savil._ The Devil guide it downward: would there were in't an acre of the
great broom field he bought, to sweep your durtie Conscience, or to choak
ye, 'tis all one to me, Usurer.

_Young Lo._ Consider what I told you, you are young, unapt for worldly
business: Is it fit one of such tenderness, so delicate, so contrarie to
things of care, should stir and break her better meditations, in the bare
brokage of a brace of Angels? or a new Kirtel, though it be Satten? eat by
the hope of surfeits, and lie down only in expectation of a morrow, that
may undo some easie hearted fool, or reach a widows curses? Let out mony,
whose use returns the principal? and get out of these troubles, a
consuming heir: For such a one must follow necessarily, you shall die
hated, if not old and miserable; and that possest wealth that you got with
pining, live to see tumbled to anothers hands, that is no more a kin to
you, than you to his couzenage.

_Widow._ Sir you speak well, would God that chari