DRUG. Troth, sir, I was speaking,
Just as your worship came here, of your worship:
I pray you speak for me to master doctor.

FACE. He shall do any thing. -- Doctor, do you hear?
This is my friend, Abel, an honest fellow;
He lets me have good tobacco, and he does not
Sophisticate it with sack-lees or oil,
Nor washes it in muscadel and grains,
Nor buries it in gravel, under ground,
Wrapp'd up in greasy leather, or piss'd clouts:
But keeps it in fine lily pots, that, open'd,
Smell like conserve of roses, or French beans.
He has his maple block, his silver tongs,
Winchester pipes, and fire of Juniper:
A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no goldsmith.

SUB. He is a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on.

FACE. Already, sir, have you found it? Lo thee, Abel!

SUB. And in right way toward riches --

FACE. Sir!

SUB. This summer
He will be of the clothing of his company,
And next spring call'd to the scarlet; spend what he can.

FACE. What, and so little beard?