_Dor._ You never, Sir, So well I know my duty: and for Heaven sake, Take but this counsel with ye ere you marry, You were wont to hear me: take him, and confess him, Search him to the quick, and if you find him false, Do as you please; a Mothers name I honour. _Seb._ He is lost, and spoil'd, I am resolv'd my roof Shall never harbour him: and for you Minion I'le keep you close enough, lest you break loose, And do more mischief; get ye in: who waits? [_Exit_ Dor. _Enter Servant._ _Ser._ Do you call, Sir? _Seb._ Seek the Boy: and bid him wait My pleasure in the morning: mark what house He is in, and what he does: and truly tell me. _Ser._ I will not fail, Sir. _Seb._ If ye do, I'le hang ye. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _Enter_ Thomas, Hylas, _and_ Sam. _Tho._ Keep you the back door there, and be sure None of her servants enter, or go out, If any Woman pass, she is lawful prize, Boys, Cut off all convoyes. _Hyl._ Who shall answer this? _Tho._ Why, I shall answer it, you fearful widgeon, I shall appear to th' action. _Hyl._ May we discourse too, On honourable terms? _Tho._ With any Gentlewoman That shall appear at window: ye may rehearse too By your commission safely, some sweet parcels Of Poetry to a Chamber-maid. _Hyl._ May we sing too? For there's my master-piece. _Tho._ By no means, no Boys, I am the man reserv'd for Air, 'tis my part, And if she be not rock, my voyce shall reach her: Ye may record a little, or ye may whistle, As time shall minister, but for main singing, Pray ye satisfie your selves: away, be careful. _Hyl._ But hark ye, one word _Tom_, we may be beaten. _Tho._ That's as ye think good your selves: if you deserve it, Why 'tis the easiest thing to compass: beaten? What Bugbears dwell in thy brains? who should beat thee? _Hyl._ She has men enough. _Tho._ Art not thou man enough too? Thou hast flesh enough about thee: if all that mass Will not maintain a little spirit, hang it, And dry it too for dogs-meat: get you gone; I have things of moment in my mind: that door, Keep it as thou would'st keep thy Wife from a Servingman. No more I say: away, _Sam_. _Sam._ At your will, Sir. [_Exeunt_ Hylas _and_ Sam. _Enter_ Launcelot, _and Fidler_. _Lan._ I have him here, a rare Rogue, good sweet Master, Do something of some savour suddenly, That we may eat, and live: I am almost starv'd, _No point manieur, no point devein, no Signieur_, Not by the vertue of my languages, Nothing at my old masters to be hoped for, O Signieur _du_, nothing to line my life with, But cold Pyes with a cudgel, till you help us.