my assurance, rather,
To see thee curvet, and mount like a dog in a blanket,
If ever thou presume to pass her threshold,
I will endure thy company.

_Wellb._ Come along. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A Hall in_ Lady Allworth's _House_.

_Enter_ Allworth, Order, Amble, _and_ Watchall.

_Allw._ Your courtesies overwhelm me: I much grieve
To part from this house, and yet, I find comfort;
My attendance on my honourable lord,
Whose resolution holds to visit my lady,
Will speedily bring me back.

[_Knocking at the Gate._ Marall _and_ Wellborn _within_.

_Mar._ Dar'st thou venture farther?

_Wellb._ Yes, yes, and knock again.

_Order._ 'Tis he; disperse; 'tis Mr. Wellborn.

_Fur._ I know my cue, ne'er doubt me.

[_Exeunt_ Amble _and_ Furnice.

_Enter_ Marall _and_ Wellborn.

_Order._ You were long since expected.
Most welcome, sir.

_Wellb._ Say so much
To my friend, I pray you.

_Order._ For your sake, I will, sir. [_Exit._

_Mar._ For his sake!

_Wellb._ Mum! this is nothing.

_Mar._ More than ever
I would have believed, though I had found it in my primer.

_Allw._ When I have given you reasons for my late harshness,
You'll pardon, and excuse me: for, believe me;
Tho' now I part abruptly in my service,
I will deserve it.

_Mar._ Service! with a vengeance!

_Wellb._ I am satisfied: farewell, Tom.

_Allw._ All joy stay with you.

[_Exit_ Allworth.

_Enter_ Amble.

_Amble._ You are happily encounter'd: I never yet
Presented one so welcome, as I know
You will be to my lady.

_Mar._ This is some vision;
Or, sure, these men are mad, to worship a dung-hill;
It cannot be a truth.

_Wellb._ Be still a pagan,
An unbelieving infidel; be so, miscreant,
And meditate on blankets, and on dog-whips.

_Enter_ Furnace.

_Fur._ I am glad you are come; until I know your pleasure,
I knew not how to serve up my lady's dinner.

_Mar._ His pleasure! is it possible? [_Aside._

_Wellb._ What's thy will?

_Fur._ Marry, sir, I have some growse and turkey chicken,
Some rails and quails; and my lady will'd me to ask you,
What kind of sauces best affect your palate,
That I may use my utmost skill to please it.

_Mar._ The devil's enter'd this cook: sauce for his palate!
That on my knowledge, for a most this twelve-month,
Durst wish but cheese-parings, and brown bread on Sundays.

_Wellb._ That way I like them best.

_Fur._ It shall be done, sir. [_Exit_ Furnace.

_Wellb._ What think you of the he