Since we are come hither, let's spare for no leather,
To dance for the honour of Holloway.

_Ed._ Well said, my boys, I must have my lord's livery; what is't, a
maypole? troth, 'twere a good body for a courtier's impreza, if it had
but this life--_Frustra storescit_. Hold, cousin, hold.

(_He gives the fool money_.)

_Fool_. Thanks, cousin, when the lord my father's audit comes, we'll
repay you again, your benevolence too, sir.

_Mam._ What! a lord's son become a beggar!

_Fool_. Why not, when beggars are become lord's sons. Come, 'tis but a
trifle.

_Mam._ Oh, sir, many a small make a great.

_Fool_. No, sir, a few great make a many small. Come, my lords, poor and
needy hath no law.

_Ed._ Nor necessity no right. Drum, down with them into the cellar. Rest
content, rest content, one bout more, and then away.

_Fool_. Spoke like a true heart; I kiss thy foot, sweet knight.

(_The Morrice sing and dance, and exeunt_.)

SWAINE.