bed with her, whose father
Ruin'd thy state?

_Allw._ And yours, too.

_Wellb._ I confess it, Allworth. But,
I must tell you as a friend, and freely,
Where impossibilities are apparent.
Canst thou imagine (let not self-love blind thee)
That Sir Giles Overreach (that, to make her great
In swelling titles, without touch of conscience,
Will cut his neighbour's throat, and, I hope, his own too)
Will e'er consent to make her thine? Give o'er,
And think of some course suitable to thy rank,
And prosper in it.

_Allw._ You have well advis'd me.
But, in the meantime, you that are so studious
Of my affairs, wholly neglect your own.
Remember yourself, and in what plight you are.

_Wellb._ No matter! no matter!

_Allw._ Yes, 'tis much material:
You know my fortune, and my means; yet something
I can spare from myself, to help your wants.

_Wellb._ How's this?

_Allw._ Nay, be not angry. There's eight pieces
To put you in better fashion.

_Wellb._ Money from thee?
From a boy? a dependant? one that lives
At the devotion of a step-mother,
And the uncertain favour of a lord?
I'll eat my arms first. Howsoe'er blind Fortune
Hath spent the utmost of her malice on me;
Though I am thrust out of an alehouse,
And thus accoutred; know not where to eat,
Or drink, or sleep, but underneath this canopy;
Although I thank thee, I disdain thy offer.
And as I, in my madness, broke my state,
Without the assistance of another's brain,
In my right wits I'll piece it. At the worst,
Die thus, and be forgotten. [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.--_A Chamber in_ Lady Allworth's _House._

_Enter_ Furnace, Amble, Order, _and_ Watchall.

_Order._ Set all things right; or as my name is Order,
Whoever misses in his function,
For one whole week makes forfeiture of his breakfast,
And privilege in the wine-cellar.

_Amble._ You are merry,
Good master steward.

_Fur._ Let him; I'll be angry.

_Amble._ Why, fellow Furnace, 'tis not twelve o'clock yet,
Nor dinner taking up: then 'tis allow'd,
Cooks by their places, may be choleric.

_Fur._ You think you have spoken wisely, goodman Amble,
My lady's go-before.

_Order._ Nay, nay, no wrangling.

_Fur._ Twit me with the authority of the kitchen?
At all hours, and at all places, I'll be angry:
And, thus provok'd, when I am at my prayers
I will be angry.

_Amble._ There was no hurt meant.

_Fur._ I am friends with thee, and yet I will be angry.

_Order._ With whom?

_Fur._ No ma