_Hyl._ This last Wench! I, this last wench was a fair one, A dainty Wench, a right one; a Devil take it, What do I ail? to have fifteen now in liking, Enough a Man would think to stay my stomach? But what's fifteen, or fifteen score to my thoughts? And wherefore are mine Eyes made, and have lights, But to encrease my Objects? This last Wench Sticks plaguey close to me, a hundred pound I were as close to her; If I lov'd now, As many foolish men do, I should run mad. SCENE II. _Enter old_ Sebastian, _and_ Launcelot. _Seb._ Sirrah, no more of your French shrugs I advise you. If you be lowzie shift your self. _Laun._ May it please your Worship. _Seb._ Only to see my Son, my Son, good _Launcelot_; Your Master and my Son; Body O me Sir, No money, no more money, Monsieur _Launcelot_, Not a Denier, sweet Signior; bring the Person, The person of my Boy, my Boy _Tom_, Monsieur _Thomas_, Or get you gone again, _du gata whee_, Sir; _Bassa mi cu_, good _Launcelot_, _valetote_. My Boy or nothing. _Laun._ Then to answer punctually. _Seb._ I say to th' purpose. _Laun._ Then I say to th' purpose, Because your Worships vulgar Understanding May meet me at the nearest; your Son, my Master, Or Monsieur _Thomas_, (for so his Travel stiles him) Through many foreign plots that Vertue meets with, And dangers (I beseech ye give attention) Is at the last arriv'd To ask your (as the French man calls it sweetly) Benediction _de jour en jour_. _Seb._ Sirrah, do not conjure me with your French furies. _Laun._ _Che ditt' a vou_, Monsieur. _Seb._ _Che doga vou_, Rascal; Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainly, And quickly, Sirrah, lest I crack your French Crown, What your good Master means; I have maintain'd You and your Monsieur, as I take it, _Launcelot_, These two years at your _ditty vous_, your _jours_. _Jour_ me no more, for not another penny Shall pass my purse. _Laun._ Your Worship is erroneous, For as I told you, your Son _Tom_, or _Thomas_, My master and your Son is now arriv'd To ask you, as our Language bears it nearest, Your quotidian Blessing, and here he is in Person. _Enter_ Thomas. _Seb._ What, _Tom_! Boy, welcome with all my heart, Boy Welcome, 'faith thou hast gladded me at soul, Boy, Infinite glad I am, I have pray'd too, _Thomas_, For you wild _Thomas_, _Tom_, I thank thee heartily For coming home. _Thom._ Sir, I do find your Prayers Have much prevail'd above my sins. _Seb._ How's this? _Thom._ Else certain I had perish'd with my rudeness, Ere I had won my self to that discretion, I hope you shall hereafter find. _Seb._ Humh, humh, Discretion? is it come to that? the Boy's spoil'd.