_+Warehouse+, +Seathrift+._ +Sea.+ I promise you 'twill be a most rare plot. +Ware.+ The city, Master Seathrift, never yet Brought forth the like: I would have them that have Fin'd twice for sheriff, mend it. +Sea.+ Mend it! why, 'Tis past the wit o' th' court of aldermen. Next merchant-tailor, that writes chronicles,[181] Will put us in. +Ware.+ For, since I took him home, Though, sir, my nephew, as you may observe, Seem quite transfigur'd, be as dutiful As a new 'prentice, in his talk declaim 'Gainst revelling companions, be as hard To be entic'd from home as my door-posts, This reformation may but be his part, And he may act his virtues. I have not Forgot his riots at the Temple. You know, sir---- +Sea.+ You told me, Master Warehouse. +Ware.+ Not the sea, When it devour'd my ships, cost me so much As did his vanities. A voyage to the Indies Has been lost in a night: his daily suits Were worth more than the stock that set me up; For which he knew none but the silk-man's book, And studied that more than the law. He had His loves, too, and his mistresses; was enter'd Among the philosophical madams;[182] was As great with them as their concerners; and, I hear, Kept one of them in pension. +Sea.+ My son too Hath had his errors: I could tell the time When all the wine which I put off by wholesale He took again in quarts; and at the day Vintners have paid me with his large scores: but He is reformed too. +Ware.+ Sir, we now are friends In a design. +Sea.+ And hope to be in time Friends in alliance, sir. +Ware.+ I'll be free; I think well of your son. +Sea.+ Who? Timothy? Believe't, a virtuous boy; and for his sister, A very saint. +Ware.+ Mistake me not, I have The like opinion of my nephew, sir; Yet he is young, and so is your son; nor Doth the church-book say they are past our fears. Our presence is their bridle now; 'tis good To know them well whom we do make our heirs. +Sea.+ It is most true. +Ware.+ Well; and how shall we know How they will use their fortune, or what place We have in their affection, without trial? Some wise men build their own tombs; let us try, If we were dead, whether our heirs would cry, Or wear[183] long cloaks. This plot will do't. +Sea.+ 'Twill make us Famous upon the Exchange for ever. I'll home, And take leave of my wife and son. +Ware.+ And I'll Come to you at your garden-house.[184] Within there. [_Exit +Seathrift+._ SCENE II. _Enter +Cypher+._ +Ware.+ Now, Cypher, where's my nephew? +Cyph.+ In the hall, Reading a letter which a footman brought Just now to him from a lady, sir. +Ware.+ A lady!