ts, when they hear it!
Have you given order for the Coach?

_Charl._ Yes, Madam.

_Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd.

_Serv._ 'Tis making ready.

_Champ._ Where are your Horses?

_Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last.

_Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have!
A roaring, merry night.

_Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir.

_Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee,
I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet.

_Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it,
Then if you fail--

_Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.
But let's in, and prepare, and after dinner
Begin our mirthful pilgrimage.

_Lam._ He that's sad,
A crab-face'd Mistris cleave to him for this year. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Cleremont, _and_ La-writ.

_La-writ._ Since it cannot be the Judge--

_Cler._ 'Tis a great deal better.

_La-writ._ You are sure, he is his kinsman? a Gentleman?

_Cler._ As arrant a Gentleman, and a brave fellow,
And so near to his blood--

_La-writ._ It shall suffice,
I'le set him further off, I'le give a remove
Shall quit his kindred, I'le lopp him.

_Cl[e]r._ Will ye kill him?

_La-w._ And there were no more Cousins in the world I kill him,
I do mean, Sir, to kill all my Lords kindred.
For every cause a Cousin.

_Cler._ How if he have no more Cousins?

_La-writ._ The next a kin then to his Lordships favour;
The man he smiles upon.

_Cler._ Why this is vengeance, horrid, and dire.

_La-writ._ I love a dire revenge:
Give me the man that will all others kill,
And last himself,

_Cler._ You stole that resolution.

_La-writ._ I had it in a Play, but that's all one,
I wou'd see it done.

_Cler._ Come, you must be more merciful.

_La-writ._ To no Lords Cousins in the world, I hate 'em;
A Lords Cousin to me is a kind of Cockatrice,
If I see him first, he dies.
A strange Antipathy.

_Cler._ What think you of their Nieces?

_La-writ._ If I like 'em,
They may live, and multiply; 'tis a cold morning.

_Cler._ 'Tis sharp indeed; you have broke your fast?

_La-writ._ No verily.

_Cler._ Your valour would have ask'd a good foundation.

_La-writ._ Hang him, I'le kill him fasting.

_Enter_ Sampson _and the Gent_.

_Cler._ Here they come,
Bear your self in your language, smooth and gently,
When your swords argue.

_La-writ._ 'Pray Sir, spare your precepts.

_Gent._ I have brought you, Sir--

_La-writ._ 'Tis very well, no words,
You are welcome, Sir.

_Sam._ I