Or spleen of comic writers. Though this pen
Did never aim to grieve, but better men ;
Howe'er the age he lives in doth endure
The vices that she breeds, above their cure.
But when the wholesome remedies are sweet,
And in their working, gain and profit meet,
He hopes to find no spirit so much diseas'd,
But will with such fair correctives be pleas'd:
For here he doth not fear who can apply.
If there be any that will sit so nigh

Unto the stream, to look what it doth run,

They shall find things, they'd think, or wish, were done; They are so natural follies, but so shown,

As even the doers may see, and yet not own.

N. B. This Play never performed at Covent-Garden Theatre.

Sub. Do thy worst. I dare thee.

Face. Sirrah, I'll strip you out of all your sleights Dol. Nay, look ye, sovereign, general, are you mad

men?

Sub. O, let the wild sheep loose. I'll gum your silk With good strong water, an' you come.

Dol. Will you have

The neighbours hear you? Will you betray all? "Hark, I hear somebody."

Face. Sirrah!

Sub I shall mar

All that the taylor has made, if you approach.

Face. You most notorious whelp, you insolent slave, Dare you do this?

Sub. Yes faith, yes faith.

Face. Why, who

Am I, my mungrel? Who am I?

Sub. I'll tell you,

Since you know not yourself—

Face. Speak lower, rogue.

20

Sub. Yes, you were once (time not long pass'd) the

good,

Honest, plain, livery-man, that kept

Your master's worship's house here in the Friars,
For the vacations.

Face. Will you be so loud?

Sub. Since, by my means, translated suburb-captain.

Face. By your means, doctor Dog?

Sub. Within man's memory,

All this I speak of.

Face. Why, I pray you, have I

Been countenanced by you, or you by me?

Do but collect, sir, where I met you first.
Sub. I do not hear well.

Face. Not of this, I think it:

But I shall put you in mind, sir; at Pye-Corner,
Taking your meal of steam in, from cooks' stalls;
Where, like the father of hunger, you did walk
Piteously costive, with your pinch'd-horn nose,
And your complexion of the Roman wash,
Stuck full of black and melancholic worms,
Like powder corn shot at th' Artillery-yard.

40

Sub. I wish you could advance your voice a little. Face. When you went pinn'd up in the several rags

You had rak'd and pick'd from dunghills before day;
Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your kibes

A felt of rug, and a thin threaden cloak,
That scarce would cover your no-buttocks-
Sub. So, sir!

Face. When all your alchymy, and your algebra, Your minerals, vegetals, and animals,

Your conjuring, coz'ning, and your doz'n of trades,
Could not relieve your corpse with so much linen
Would make you tinder but to see a fire;
I gave you count'nance, credit for your coals,
Your stills, your glasses, your materials;
Built you a furnace, drew you customers,
Advanc'd all your black arts, lent you, beside,
A house to practice in-

Sub. Your master's house?

Face. Where you have studied the more thriving skill

Of bawd❜ry since.

Sub. Yes, in your master's house.

You and the rats here kept possession.

61

Make it not strange. "I know you were one could

keep

"The butt'ry hatch still lock'd, and save the chippings, "Sell the dole beer to aqua-vitæ men,

"The which, together with your Christmas vails "At post and pair, your letting out of counters, "Made you a pretty stock, some twenty marks, "And gave you credit to converse with cobwebs "Here, since your mistress' death hath broke up house. "Face. You might talk softlier, rascal.