+Lieut.+ The pottle-pots will sleep in peace to-night. +Capt.+ And the sweet clinks. +Lieut.+ The clattering of pipes. +Capt.+ The Spanish fumes. +Lieut.+ The _More wine, boy_, the nimble _Anon, anon, sir_.[27] +Capt.+ All to-night will be nothing; come, we must shift. 'Sfoot, what a witty rogue 'twas to leave this fair thirteenpence halfpenny and this old halter; intimating aptly, Had the hangman met us there, by these presages, Here had been his work, and here his wages.[28] +Lieut.+ Come, come, we must make friends. [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Bloodhound+, +Tim+, and +Sim+._ +Blood.+ There, sirrah, there's his bond: run into the Strand, 'tis six weeks since the tallow-chandler fetched my hundred marks I lent him to set him up, and to buy grease; this is his day, I'll have his bones for't else, so pray tell him. +Tim.+ But are a chandler's bones worth so much, father? +Blood.+ Out, coxcomb! +Sim.+ Worth so much! I know my master will make dice of them; then 'tis but letting Master Alexander carry them next Christmas to the Temple,[29] he'll make a hundred marks a night of them. +Tim.+ Mass, that's true. +Blood.+ And run to Master Ear-lack's the informer, in Thieving Lane, and ask him what he has done in my business. He gets abundance; and if he carry my cause with one false oath, he shall have Moll; he will take her with a little. Are you gone, sir? +Tim.+ No, forsooth. +Blood.+ As you come by Temple Bar, make a step to th' Devil. +Tim.+ To the Devil, father? +Sim.+ My master means the sign of the Devil;[30] and he cannot hurt you, fool; there's a saint holds him by the nose. +Tim.+ Sniggers! what does the devil and a saint both in a sign? +Sim.+ What a question's that? what does my master and his prayer-book o' Sunday both in a pew? +Blood.+[31] Well, well, ye gipsy, what do we both in a pew? +Sim.+ Why, make a fair show; and the devil and the saint does no more. +Blood.+ You're witty, you're witty. Call to the man o' th' house, bid him send in the bottles of wine to-night; they will be at hand i' th' morning. Will you run, sir? +Tim.+ To the devil, as fast as I can, sir; the world shall know whose son I am. [_Exit._ +Blood.+ Let me see now for a poesy for the ring: never an end of an old saw? 'Tis a quick widow, Sim, and would have a witty poesy. +Sim.+ If she be quick, she's with child; whosoever got it, you must father it; so that _You come o' th' nick, For the widow's quick._ There's a witty poesy for your quick widow. +Blood.+ No, no; I'll have one shall savour of a saw. +Sim.+ Why then, 'twill smell of the painted cloth.[32] +Blood.+ Let me see, _a widow witty_----