_Rut_. You have lost a wife indeed, a fair and chast one, Two blessings, not found often in one woman; But she may be recovered, questionless The ship that took us was of _Portugal_, And here in _Lisbon_, by some means or other We may hear of her. _Arn_. In that hope I live. _Rut_. And so do I, but hope is a poor Sallad To dine and sup with, after a two dayes fast too, Have you no mony left? _Arn_. Not a Denier. _Rut_. Nor any thing to pawn? 'tis now in fashion, Having a Mistress, sure you should not be Without a neat Historical shirt. _Arn_. For shame Talk not so poorly. _Rut_. I must talk of that Necessity prompts us to, for beg I cannot, Nor am I made to creep in at a window, To filch to feed me, something must be done, And suddenly resolve on't. _Enter_ Zabulon _and a Servant_. _Arn_. What are these? _Rut_. One by his habit is a _Jew_. _Zab_. No more: Thou art sure that's he. _Ser_. Most certain. _Zab_. How long is it Since first she saw him? _Ser_. Some two hours. _Zab_. Be gone--let me alone to work him. [_Exit_ Ser. _Rut_. How he eyes you! Now he moves towards us, in the Devils name What would he with us? _Arn_. Innocence is bold: Nor can I fear. _Zab_. That you are poor and strangers, I easily perceive. _Rut_. But that you'l help us, Or any of your tribe, we dare not hope Sir. _Zab_. Why think you so? _Rut_. Because you are a _Jew_ Sir, And courtesies come sooner from the Devil Than any of your Nation. _Zab_. We are men, And have like you, compassion when we find Fit subjects for our bounty, and for proof That we dare give, and freely, not to you Sir, Pray spare your pains, there's gold, stand not amaz'd, 'Tis current I assure you. _Rut_. Take it man, Sure thy good Angel is a _Jew_, and comes In his own shape to help thee: I could wish now Mine would appear too like a _Turk_. _Arn_. I thank you, But yet must tell you, if this be the Prologue To any bad act, you would have me practise, I must not take it. _Zab_. This is but the earnest Of [t]hat which is to follow, and the bond Which you must seal to for't, is your advancement, Fortune with all that's in her power to give, Offers her self up to you: entertain her, And that which Princes have kneel'd for in vain Presents it self to you. _Arn_. 'Tis above wonder. _Zab_. But far beneath the truth, in my relation Of what you shall possess, if you emb[r]ace it. There is an hour in each mans life appointed To make his happiness if then he seize it, And this, (in which, beyond all expectation, You are invited to your good) is yours, If you dare follow me, so, if not, hereafter Expect not the like offer. [_Exit_. _Arn_. 'Tis no vision. _Rut_. 'Tis gold I'm sure. _Arn_. We must like brothers share; There's for you. _Rut_. By this light I'm glad I have it: There are few Gallants, (for men may be such And yet want gold, yea and sometimes silver) But would receive such favours from the Devil, Though he appear'd like a Broker, and demanded Sixty i'th' hundred.