SPEND. A lord? by this light, I do not think but to be Lord Mayor of London before I die, and have three pageants carried before me, besides a ship and an unicorn. 'Prentices may pray for that time; for whenever it happens, I will make another Shrove Tuesday[162] for them. _Enter_ DRAWER. DRAWER. Young Master Rash has sent you a quart of Malaga[163]. SPEND. Master Rash! zounds! how does he know that I am here? DRAWER. Nay, I know not, sir. SPEND. Know not! it comes through you and your rascally glib-tongued companions. 'Tis my master's son: a fine gentleman he is, and a boon companion: I must go see him. [_Exit_ SPENDALL. SWEAT. Boy, fill us a cup of your malaga, we'll drink to Master Spendall in his absence: there's not a finer spirit of a citizen within the walls. Here, Master Pursenet, you shall pledge him. PURSE. I'll not refuse it, were it puddle: by Styx, he is a bountiful gentleman, and I shall report him so. Here, Mistress Tickleman, shall I charge you? TICKLE. Do your worst, serjeant: I'll pledge my young Spendall a whole sea, as they say: fa, la, la, la, la! Would the music were here again; I do begin to be wanton. Ipocras, sirrah, and a dry biscuit! Here, bawd, a carouse! SWEAT. Bawd, i' faith! you begin to grow light i' the head. I pray no more such words; for, if you do, I shall grow into distempers. TICKLE. Distempers! hang your distempers; be angry with me, and thou dar'st. I pray, who feeds you, but I? who keeps thy feather-beds from the brokers, but I? 'tis not your sausage-face, thick, clouted[164] cream-rampallion[165] at home, that snuffles in the nose like a decayed bagpipe. PURSE. Nay, sweet Mistress Tickleman, be concordant; reverence antiquity. _Enter_ RASH, LONGFIELD, _and_ SPENDALL. RASH. Save you, sweet creatures of beauty, save you: how now, old Beelzebub, how dost thou? SWEAT. Beelzebub! Beelzebub in thy face! SPEND. Nay, good words, Mistress Sweatman: he's a young gallant; you must not weigh what he says. RASH. I would my lamentable complaining lover had been here: here had been a supersedeas for his melancholy; and, i' faith, Frank, I am glad my father has turned over his shop to thee. I hope I, or any friend of mine, shall have so much credit with thee, as to stand in thy books for a suit of satin. SPEND. For a whole piece, if you please; any friend of yours shall command me to the last remnant. RASH. Why, God-a-mercy, Frank; what, shall's to dice? SPEND. Dice or drink: here's forty crowns: as long as that will last--anything. RASH. Why, there spoke a gingling boy. SPEND. A pox of money! 'tis but rubbish; and he that hoards it up is but a scavenger. If there be cards i' the house, let's go to primero. RASH. Primero! why, I thought thou hadst not been so much gamester as to play at it.