_Hig._ Cry, a Judge, a Judge.

_Gos._ What ail you Sirs? what means this outcry?

_Hig._ Master,
A sort of poor souls met: Gods fools, good Master,
Have had some little variance amongst our selves
Who should be honestest of us, and which lives
Uprightest in his calling: Now, 'cause we thought
We ne're should 'gree on't our selves, because
Indeed 'tis hard to say: we all dissolv'd, to put it
To him that should come next, and that's your Master-ship,
Who, I hope, will 'termine it as your mind serves you,
Right, and no otherwise we ask it: which?
Which does your worship think is he? sweet Master
Look over us all, and tell us; we are seven of us,
Like to the seven wise Masters, or the Planets.

_Gos._ I should judge this the man with the grave beard,
And if he be not--

_Clau._ Bless you, good Master, bless you.

_Gos._ I would he were: there's something too amongst you
To keep you all honest. [_Exit._

_Snap._ King of Heaven go with you.

_Omn._ Now good reward him,
May he never want it, to comfort still the poor, in a good hour.