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Wit Without Money - The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher by Francis Beaumont
page 61 of 125 (48%)

_Unc._ I thought till now, there had been no such living, no such
purchase, for all the rest is labour, as a list of honourable friends;
do such men as you, Sir, in lieu of all your understandings, travels,
and those great gifts of nature, aim at no more than casting off your
Coats? I am strangely cozen'd.

_Lance._ Should not the Town shake at the cold you feel now, and
all the Gentry suffer interdiction, no more sense spoken, all things
_Goth_ and _Vandal_, till you be summed again, Velvets and Scarlets,
anointed with gold Lace, and Cloth of silver turned into _Spanish_
Cottens for a penance, wits blasted with your Bulls and Taverns withered,
as though the Term lay at _St. Albans_?

_Val._ Gentlemen, you have spoken long and level, I beseech you
take breath a while and hear me; you imagine now, by the twirling of
your strings, that I am at the last, as also that my friends are flown
like Swallows after Summer.

_Unc._ Yes, Sir.

_Val._ And that I have no more in this poor Pannier, to raise me up
again above your rents, Uncle.

_Unc._ All this I do believe.

_Val._ You have no mind to better me.

_Unc._ Yes, Cousin, and to that end I come, and once more offer you
all that my power is master of.
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