honest course, 'tis time; men now begin to look, and narrowly into your
tumbling tricks, they are stale.

_Wid._ Is not that he?

_Luce._ 'Tis he.

_Wid._ Be still and mark him.

_Val._ How miserable will these poor wretches be when I forsake
'em! but things have their necessities, I am sorry, to what a vomit must
they turn again, now to their own dear Dunghil breeding; never hope
after I cast you off, you men of _Motley_, you most undone things
below pity, any that has a soul and six-pence dares relieve you, my name
shall bar that blessing, there's your Cloak, Sir, keep it close to you,
it may yet preserve you a fortnight longer from the fool; your Hat, pray
be covered, and there's the Sattin that your Worship sent me, will serve
you at a Sizes yet.

_Fount._ Nay, faith Sir, you may e'ne rub these out now.

_Val._ No such relique, nor the least rag of such a sordid weakness
shall keep me warm, these Breeches are mine own, purchased, and paid
for, without your compassion, a Christian Breeches founded in
Black-Friers, and so I'le maintain 'em.

_Hare._ So they seem, Sir.

_Val._ Only the thirteen shillings in these Breeches, and the odd
groat, I take it, shall be yours, Sir, a mark to know a Knave by, pray