From another mans Trencher, Sir,
And there he found it season'd with small charge:
There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye
More than the Graves he made; at home he liv'd
Like a Camelion, suckt th' Air of misery,

[_Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools_.

And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell,
Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit.
And be a month in fasting out that Fever.

_Bar_.

These are good Symptoms: do's he lye so sick say ye?

_Lop_.

Oh, very sick.

_Bar_.

And chosen me Executor?

_Lop_.

Only your Worship.

_Bar_.

No hope of his amendment?

_Lop_.

None, that we find.

_Bar_.

He hath no Kinsmen neither?

_Lop_.

'Truth, very few,

_Bar_.

His mind will be the quieter.
What Doctors has he?

_Lop_.

There's none, Sir, he believes in.

_Bar_.

They are but needless things, in such extremities.
Who draws the good mans Will?

_Lop_.

Marry that do I, Sir,
And to my grief.

_Bar_.

Grief will do little now, Sir,
Draw it to your comfort, Friend, and as I counsel ye,
An honest man, but such men live not always:
Who are about him?

_Lop_.

Many, now he is passing,
That would pretend to his love, yes, and some Gentlemen
That would fain counsel him, and be of his Kindred;
Rich men can want no Heirs, Sir.

_Bar_.

They do ill,
Indeed they do, to trouble him; very ill, Sir.
But we shall take a care.

_Enter_ Diego, _in a Bed_, Milanes, Arsenio, _and_ Parishioners.

_Lop_.

Will ye come near, Sir?
'Pray ye bring him out; now ye may see in what state:
Give him fresh Air.

_Bar_.

I am sorry, Neighbour _Diego_,
To find ye in so weak a state.

_Die_.

Ye are welcome,
But I am fleeting, Sir.

_Bar_.

Me-thinks he looks well,
His colour fresh, and strong, his eyes are chearful.

_Lop_.

A glimmering before death, 'tis nothing else, Sir,
Do you see how he fumbles with the Sheet? do ye note that?

_Die_.

My learned Sir, 'pray ye sit: I am bold to send for ye,
To take a care of what I leave.

_Lop_.

Do ye hear that?

_Ars_.

Play the Knave finely.