l:
Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment you,
I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father,
My quondam master, was a man of worship;
Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace, and quorum;
And stood fair to be custos rotulorum:
Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house:
Reliev'd the poor, and so forth: but he dying,
And the twelve hundred a-year coming to you,
Late Mr. Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn----

_Wellb._ Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.

_Froth._ Very hardly,
You cannot be out of your way.

_Tap._ But to my story; I shall proceed, sir:
You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant,
And I your under-butler: note the change now;
You had a merry time of't: Hawks and hounds;
With choice of running horses; mistresses,
And other such extravagancies;
Which your uncle, Sir Giles Overreach, observing,
Resolving not to lose so fair an opportunity,
On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds,
For a while supplied your lavishness; and
Having got your land, then left you.
While I, honest Tim Tapwell, with a little stock,
Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage;
Humbled myself to marriage with my Froth here;
Gave entertainment----

_Wellb._ Yes, to whores and pickpockets.

_Tap._ True; but they brought in profit;
And had a gift to pay what they call'd for;
And stuck not like your mastership. The poor income
I glean'd from them, hath made me, in my parish,
Thought worthy to be scavenger; and, in time,
May rise to be overseer of the poor:
Which if I do, on your petition, Wellborn,
I may allow you thirteen-pence a quarter;
And you shall thank my worship.

_Wellb._ Thus, you dog-bolt----
And thus---- [_Beats him._

_Tap._ Cry out for help!

_Wellb._ Stir, and thou diest:
Your potent prince, the constable, shall not save you.
Hear me, ungrateful hell-hound! Did not I
Make purses for you? Then you lick'd my boots
And thought your holiday coat too coarse to clean them.
'Twas I, that when I heard thee swear, if ever
Thou couldst arrive at forty pounds, thou wouldst
Live like an emperor; 'twas I that gave it,
In ready gold. Deny this, wretch!

_Tap._ I cannot, sir.

_Wellb._ They are well rewarded
That beggar themselves to make such rascals rich.
Thou viper, thankless viper!
But since you are grown forgetful, I will help
Your memory, and beat thee into remembrance;
Not leave one bone unbroken.

_Tap._ Oh!

_Enter_ Allworth.

_Allw._ Hold; for my sake,