_Enter_ Young Loveless _and_ Savil.

_Young Lo._ Did your Master send for me _Savil_?

_Sav._ Yes, he did send for your worship Sir.

_Young Lo._ Do you know the business?

_Sav._ Alas Sir, I know nothing, nor am imployed beyond my hours of
eating. My dancing days are done Sir.

_Young Lo._ What art thou now then?

_Sav._ If you consider me in little, I am with your worships reverence
Sir, a Rascal: one that upon the next anger of your Brother, must raise a
sconce by the high way, and sell switches; my wife is learning now Sir, to
weave inkle.

_Young Lo._ What dost thou mean to do with thy Children _Savil_?

_Sav._ My eldest boy is half a Rogue already, he was born bursten, and
your worship knows, that is a pretty step to mens compassions. My youngest
boy I purpose Sir to bind for ten years to a G[ao]ler, to draw under him,
that he may shew us mercy in his function.

_Young Lo._ Your family is quartered with discretion: you are resolved to
Cant then: where _Savil_ shall your scene lie?

_Sav._ Beggers must be no chusers.
In every place (I take it) but the stocks.

_Young Lo._ This is your drinking, and your whoring _Savil_, I told you of
it, but your heart was hardened.

_Sav._ 'Tis true, you were the first that told me of it I do remember yet
in tears, you told me you would have Whores, and in that passion Sir, you
broke out thus; Thou miserable man, repent, and brew three Strikes more in
a Hogshead. 'Tis noon e're we be drunk now, and the time can tarry for no
man.

_Young Lo._ Y'are grown a bitter Gentleman. I see misery can clear your
head better than Mustard, I'le be a sutor for your Keys again Sir.

_Sav._ Will you but be so gracious to me Sir? I shall be bound.

_Young Lo._ You shall Sir
To your bunch again, or I'le miss foully.

_Enter_ Morecraft.

_Mor._ Save you Gentleman, save you.

_Young Lo._ Now Polecat, what young Rabets nest have you to draw?

_Mor._ Come, prethee be familiar Knight.

_Young Lo._ Away Fox, I'le send for Terriers for you.

_Mor._ Thou art wide yet: I'le keep thee companie.

_Young Lo._ I am about some business; Indentures,
If ye follow me I'le beat you: take heed,
A[s] I live I'le cancel your Coxcomb.

_Mor._ Thou art cozen'd now, I am no usurer:
What poor fellow's this?

_Savil._ I am poor indeed Sir.

_Mor._ Give him mony Knight.

_Young Lo._ Do you begin the offering.

_Mor._ There poor fellow, here's an Angel for thee.

_Young Lo._ Ar