e liberal spending
The Summer of your Youth, which you should glean in,
And like the labouring Ant, make use and gain of,
Has brought this bitter, stormy Winter on ye,
And now you cry.

_3 Mer._ Alas, before your Poverty,
We were no men, of no mark, no endeavour;
You stood alone, took up all trade, all business
Running through your hands, scarce a Sail at Sea,
But loaden with your Goods: we poor weak Pedlers;
When by your leave, and much intreaty to it,
We could have stowage for a little Cloath,
Or a few Wines, put off, and thank your Worship.
Lord, how the World's chang'd with ye? now I hope, Sir,
We shall have Sea-room.

_Gos._ Is my misery
Become my scorn too! have ye no humanity?
No part of men left? are all the Bounties in me
To you, and to the Town, turn'd my reproaches?

_4 Mer._ Well, get your moneys ready: 'tis but 2 hours;
We shall protest ye else, and suddenly.

_Gos._ But two days.

_1 Mer._ Not an hour, ye know the hazard. [_Exeunt._

_Gos._ How soon my light's put out! hard hearted _Bruges_!
Within thy Walls may never honest Merchant
Venture his fortunes more: O my poor Wench too.

_Enter_ Gerrard.

_Ger._ Good fortune, Master.

_Gos._ Thou mistak'st me, _Clause_,
I am not worth thy Blessing.

_Ger._ Still a sad man!

_Enter_ Higgen _and_ Prigg, _like_ Porters.
No belief gentle Master? come bring it in then,
And now believe your Beadsman.

_Gos._ Is this certain?
Or dost thou work upon my troubled sense?

_Ger._ 'Tis gold, Sir,
Take it and try it.

_Gos._ Certainly 'tis treasure;
Can there be yet this Blessing?

_Ger._ Cease your wonder,
You shall not sink, for ne'r a sowst Flap-dragon,
For ne'r a pickl'd Pilcher of 'em all, Sir,
'Tis there, your full sum, a hundred thousand crowns:
And good sweet Master, now be merry; pay 'em,
Pay the poor pelting Knaves, that know no goodness:
And chear your heart up handsomely.

_Gos._ Good _Clause_,
How cam'st thou by this mighty Sum? if naughtily,
I must not take it of thee, 'twill undo me.

_Ger._ Fear not, you have it by as honest means
As though your father gave it: Sir, you know not
To what a mass, the little we get daily,
Mounts in seven years; we beg it for Heavens charity,
And to the same good we are bound to render it.

_Gos._ What great security?

_Ger._ Away with that, Sir,
Were not ye more than all the men in _Bruges_;
And all the money in my thoughts--

_Gos._ But good _Clause_,
I may dye presently.

_Ger._