[Enter Old Cromwell.]

OLD CROMWELL.
You idle knaves, what, are you loitering now?
No hammers walking and my work to do!
What, not a heat among your work to day?

HODGE.
Marry, sir, your son Thomas will not let us work at all.

OLD CROMWELL.
Why, knave, I say, have I thus carked & car'd
And all to keep thee like a gentleman;
And dost thou let my servants at their work,
That sweat for thee, knave, labour thus for thee?

CROMWELL.
Father, their hammers do offend my study.

OLD CROMWELL.
Out of my doors, knave, if thou likest it not.
I cry you mercy! is your ears so fine?
I tell thee, knave, these get when I do sleep;
I will not have my Anvil stand for thee.

CROMWELL.
There's money, father, I will pay your men.

[He throws money among them.]