find who is her
_Valentine_.

_Isa._ Come let's go see her, I long to prosecute.

_Luce._ By no means Mistress, let her take better hold first.

_Isab._ I could burst now. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Valentine, Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain.

_Val._ Upbraid me with your benefits, you Pilchers, you shotten,
sold, slight fellows? was't not I that undertook you first from empty
barrels, and brought those barking mouths that gaped like bung-holes to
utter sence? where got you understanding? who taught you manners and apt
carriage to rank your selves? who filled you in fit Taverns? were those
born with your worships when you came hither? what brought you from the
Universities of moment matter to allow you, besides your small base
sentences?

_Bell._ 'Tis well, Sir.

_Val._ Long Cloaks with two-hand-rapiers, boot-hoses with
penny-poses, and twenty fools opinions, who looked on you but piping
rites that knew you would be prizing, and Prentices in Paul's
Church-yard, that scented your want of _Britains_ Books.

_Enter_ Widow, Luce, Hairbrain.

_Font._ This cannot save you.

_Val._ Taunt my integrity you Whelps?

_Bell._ You may talk the stock we gave you out, but see no further.

_Hair._ You tempt our patience, we have found you out, and what
your trust comes to, ye're well feathered, thank us, and think now of an
honest course, 'tis time; men now begin to look, and narrowly into your
tumbling tricks, they are stale.

_Wid._ Is not that he?

_Luce._ 'Tis he.

_Wid._ Be still and mark him.

_Val._ How miserable will these poor wretches be when I forsake
'em! but things have their necessities, I am sorry, to what a vomit must
they turn again, now to their own dear Dunghil breeding; never hope
after I cast you off, you men of _Motley_, you most undone things
below pity, any that has a soul and six-pence dares relieve you, my name
shall bar that blessing, there's your Cloak, Sir, keep it close to you,
it may yet preserve you a fortnight longer from the fool; your Hat, pray
be covered, and there's the Sattin that your Worship sent me, will serve
you at a Sizes yet.

_Fount._ Nay, faith Sir, you may e'ne rub these out now.

_Val._ No such relique, nor the least rag of such a sordid weakness
shall keep me warm, these Breeches are mine own, purchased, and paid
for, without your compassion, a Christian Breeches founded in
Black-Friers, and so I'le maintain 'em.

_Hare._ So they seem, Sir.

_Val._ Only the thirteen s