repairs to me,
To 'noint my beaten body.

_Sam._ It concerns you,
You have been swing'd.

_La-writ._ Let it concern thee too;
Goe and be beaten, speak scurvy words, as I did,
Speak to that Lion Lord, waken his anger,
And have a hundred Bastinado's, doe;
Three broken pates, thy teeth knockt out, do _Sampson_,
Thy valiant arms and leggs beaten to Poultesses,
Do silly _Sampson_, do.

_1 Cly._ You wrong the Gentleman,
To put him out of his right mind thus:
You wrong us, and our Causes.

_La-writ._ Down with him Gentlemen,
Turn him, and beat him, if he break our peace,
Then when thou hast been Lam'd, thy small guts perisht,
Then talk to me, before I scorn thy counsel,
Feel what I feel, and let my Lord repair thee.

_Sam._ And can the brave _La-writ_--

_2 Cly._ Tempt him no further,
Be warn'd and say no more.

_La-writ._ If thou doest, _Sampson_,
Thou seest my Mirmidons, I'le let 'em loose,
That in a moment--

_Sam._ I say nothing, Sir, but I could wish--

_La-writ._ They shall destroy thee wishing;
There's ne'r a man of these, but have lost ten causes,
Dearer then ten mens lives; tempt, and thou diest:
Goe home, and smile upon my Lord, thine Uncle,
Take Mony of the men thou mean'st to Cousin,
Drink Wine, and eat good meat, and live discreetly,
Talk little, 'tis an antidote against a beating;
Keep thy hand from thy sword, and from thy Laundress placket,
And thou wilt live long.

_1 Cly._ Give ear, and be instructed.

_La-writ._ I find I am wiser than a Justice of Peace now,
Give me the wisdom that's beaten into a man
That sticks still by him: art thou a new man?

_Sam._ Yes, yes,
Thy learned precepts have inchanted me.

_La-writ._ Goe my son _Sampson_, I have now begot thee,
I'le send thee causes; speak to thy Lord, and live,
And lay my share by, goe and live in peace,
Put on new suits, and shew fit for thy place;
That man neglects his living, is an Asse: [_Exit_ Samp.
Farewel; come chearily boyes, about our business,
Now welcom tongue again, hang Swords.

_1 Cly._ Sweet Advocate. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Nurse, _and_ Charlote.

_Nur._ I know not wench, they may call 'em what they will,
Outlawes, or thieves, but I am sure, to me
One was an honest man, he us'd me well,
What I did, 'tis no matter, he complain'd not.

_Char._ I must confess, there was one bold with me too,
Some coy thing would say rude, but 'tis no matter,
I was to pay a Waiting womans ransom,
And I have don't,