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Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you'll e'er return agen?
Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now's our only treasure left in store,
And that's a coin will pass with you no more:
You who such dreadful bullies would appear,
(True bullies! quiet when there's danger near)
Shew your great souls in damning poets here.


Captain BeAUGARD.
Sir Davy DUNCE.
FOURBIN, a Servant to Beaugard.
Vermin, a Servant to Sir Davy,

A Constable and Watch.

SCENE, London.


ACT 1.



Beau. A pox o'fortune! Thou art always teazing me about fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth; nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned, since the world's so wide.

Cour. As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in it.

Beau. Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.

Cour. At you I ought to rail ; 'twas your fault we left our employments abroad, to come home and be loyal, and now we as loyally starve for it.

Beau. Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity could never thrive since.

Cour. 'Tis a fine equipage I ain like to be reduced to; I shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels; like a

Beau. Snarling, thou meanest, like it's master.
Cour. My companions the worthy knights of the

most noble order of the post ; your peripatetic philosophers of the Temple-walks, rogues in rags, and yet not honest ; villains that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a dinner, and hang their fathers for half a crown.

Beau. I am ashamed to hear a soldier talk of starving.

Cour. Why, what shall I do? I can't steal –

Beau. Though thou canst not steal, thou hast other vices enough for any industrious fellow to live comfortably upon.

Cour. What! would'st thou have me turn rascal, and run cheating up and down the town for a livelihood ? I would no more keep a blockhead company, and endure his nauseous nonsense, in hopes to get him, than I would be a drudge to an old woman with rheumatic eyes, hollow teeth, and stinking breath, for a pension : of all rogues, I would not be a foolmonger.

Beau. How well this piceness becomes thee! I'd fain see thee e'en turn parson in a pet, o'purpose to rail at all those vices which I know thou naturally art fond of. Why surely an old lady's pension need not be so despicable in the eyes of a disbanded officer, as times go, friend.

Cour. I am glad, Beaugard, you think so.

Beau. Why thou shalt think so too, man; be ruled by me, and I'll bring thee into good company; families, Courtine, families; and such families, where formality's a scandal, and pleasure is the business; where the women are all wanton, and the men are all witty, you rogue.

Cour. What, some of your worship’s Wapping acquaintance, that you made last time you came over for recruits, and spirited away your landlady's daughter a volunteering with you into France.

Beau. I'll bring thee, Courtine, where cuckoldom's in credit, and lewdness laudable; where thou shalt wallow in pleasures and preferments, revel all day, and

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