ABRA. Why, alas! I cannot help this, and I should be hanged: she'll be as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you, my lord, I have seen her so be-piss the rushes, as she has danced at a wedding. Her belly and that aqua-vitæ bottle have almost undone my father. Well, I think in conscience she is not my natural-begotten mother. OMNES. Ha, ha, ha! NEV. Well said, my wise Sir Abraham.[34] C. FRED. O, this music And good wine is the soul of all the world. SIR J. WOR. Come, will your lordship make one at primero, Until your bride come forth? NEV. You can play well, my lord. C. FRED. Who, I? PEN. Who? my lord? the only player at primero i' the court. ABRA. I'd rather play at bowls. PEN. My lord's for you for that, too: the only bowler in London that is not a churchwarden. NEV. Can he fence well, too, Master Pendant? PEN. Who? my lord? the only fencer in Christendom. He'll hit you. ABRA. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now. NEV. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir? PEN. Who? my lord? the only drunkard i' th' world--drinker, I would say. ABRA. God-a-mercy for that. NEV. I would he heard him. ABRA. I know a better whoremaster than he. NEV. O fie! no: none so good as my lord. PEN. Hardly, by'r Lady, hardly. C. FRED. How now! who's this? _Enter_ SCUDMORE, _like a servingman, with a letter_. SIR J. WOR. What would you? SCUD. I would speak with the Lady Bellafront from the young Lady Lucy. SIR J. WOR. You had best send in your letter; she is withdrawn. SCUD. My lady gave me charge of the delivery, And I must do't myself, or carry it back. SIR J. WOR. A trusty servant. That way leads you to her. C. FRED. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come, Let us to bowls i' th' garden. [_Exeunt._ SCUD. Blessed fate! [SCUDMORE _passeth one door, and entereth the other, where_ BELLAFRONT _sits asleep in a chair, under a taffata canopy_. SCUD. O thou, whose words and actions seem'd to me As innocent as this smooth sleep which hath Lock'd up thy powers! Would thou hadst slept, when first Thou sent'st and profferedst me beauty and love! I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss. Happy's that wretch, in my opinion, That never own'd scarce jewels or bright sums: He can lose nothing but his constant wants; But speakless is his plague, that once had store, And from superfluous state falls to be poor. Such is my hell-bred hap! could nature make So fair a superficies to enclose So false a heart? This is like gilded tombs, Compacted of jet pillars, marble stones, Which hide from 's stinking flesh and rotten bones. Pallas so sat (methinks) in Hector's tent. But time, so precious and so dangerous, Why do I lose thee? Madam, my lady, madam. BEL. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforc'd. Ha! I had a dream as strange as thou art, fellow. How cam'st thou hither? what's thy business?