CHIR. I must not, sir, Nor will not, truly. Trust me, you will wish You had confess'd, and suffer'd me in time, When you shall come to dry-burnt racks of mutton, The syringe, and the tub.[222] MER. So: now enough. Pray fetch me what you promis'd. CHIR. Are you wild Or mad? I do protest, I ne'er did meet A gentleman of such perverseness yet. I find you just as I was told I should. MER. I lose the taking, by my swear, of[223] As much, whiles that I am receiving this. CHIR. I will not hinder you, if that you do Prefer your gain before your health. MER. Well then, I pray you tell it out: we tradesmen are not Masters of our own time. CHIR. What would you have? MER. What would I have? as if you did not know! Come, come, leave jesting now at last, good brother. CHIR. I am in earnest, sir. MER. Why, I would have My money, sir; the twenty pieces that The gentleman did give you order now To pay me for the velvet that he bought This morning of me. CHIR. O, the gentleman---- MER. You should not make a laughingstock, good brother, Of one that wrongs you not; I do profess I wont be fubb'd, ensure yourself. CHIR. The gentleman! O, O, the gentleman! Is this the cure I should perform? Truly I dare not venture Upon such desperate maladies. MER. You are but merrily dispos'd? CHIR. Indeed, they are Too high for my small quality. Verily Perhaps, good brother, you might perish under Mine hands truly. I do profess, I am not Any of your bold mountebanks in this. MER. You're still dispos'd---- CHIR. To laugh at you, good brother. Gull'd, by my swear: by my swear, gull'd! he told me You had a small infirmity upon you, A grief of youth or two: and that I should Have twenty pieces for the cure. He ask'd you, If that you were content? you answered, yes. I was in hope I had gain'd a patient more. Your best way is to make haste after him. MER. Now could I beat myself for a wise fool That I was, thus to trust him. [_Exit._ CHIR. B' w' y', brother. 'Fore God, a good one. O, the gentleman! [_Exit laughing._ SCENE V. RHYMEWELL, BAGSHOT, CATCHMEY, SIR CHRISTOPHER: _a song at a window, congratulating_ (_as_ _they think_) MASTER MEANWELL'S _marriage_. 1. _Whiles early light springs from the skies_ _A fairer from your bride doth rue;_ _A brighter day doth thence appear,_ _And makes a second morning there._ _Her blush doth shed_ _All o'er the bed_ _Clean shamefac'd beams,_ _That spread in streams,_ _And purple round the modest air._