_Por._ 'Tis ever so with thee, when thou hast done scratching, For that provokes thy stomach to ring noon; O the infinite Seas of Porridge thou hast swallow'd! And yet thou lookst as if they had been but Glysters; Thou feedst abundance, thou hadst need of sustenance; Alms do you call it to relieve these Rascals? _Enter_ Alphonso, Curio, _and_ Seberto. Nothing but a general rot of sheep can satisfie 'em. _Alp._ Did not I tell you, how she would undo me? What Marts of Rogues, and Beggers! _Seb._ 'Tis charity Methinks, you are bound to love her for-- _Alp._ Yes, I warrant ye, If men could sale to Heaven in Porridge-pots, With masts of Beef, and Mutton, what a Voyage should I make! What are all these? _1 Beg._ Poor people, and 't like your worship. _[2] Beg._ Wretched poor people. _3 Beg._ Very hungry people. _Alp._ And very Lousy. _4 Beg._ Yes forsooth, so, so. _Por._ I'le undertake five hundred head about 'em, And that's no needy Grasier. _Alp._ What are you? _Pil._ Strangers that come to wonder at your charity, Yet people poor enough to beg a blessing. _Cur._ Use them with favour, Sir, their shews are reverent, It seems ye are holy _Pilgrims_? _Pil._ Ye guess right, Sir, And bound far off, to offer our devotions. _Alp._ What make ye this way? we keep no Reliques here, Nor holy Shrines. _Pil._ The holiest we ere heard of; Ye keep a living monument of goodness, A Daughter of that pious excellence, The very Shrines of Saints sink at her vertues, And swear they cannot hold pace with her pieties, We come to see this Lady: not with prophane eyes, Nor wanton bloods, to doat upon her beauties, But through our tedious wayes to beg her blessings. _Alp._ This is a new way of begging, and a neat one, And this cries mony for reward, good store too; These commendations beg not with bag, and bottle; Well, well, the Sainting of this Woman, Gentlemen, I know what it must come to: these Women Saints Are plaguy heavy Saints: they out-weigh a he-saint Three thousand thick; I know: I feel. _Seb._ Ye are more afraid than hurt, Sir. _Alp._ Have you your commendations ready too? He bows, and nods. _Cur._ A handsome well built person. _Alp._ What Country-craver are you? nothing but motion? A puppet-Pilgrim? _Pil._ He's a stranger, Sir; This four days I have Travel'd in his Company, But little of his business, or his Language As yet I have understood. _Seb._ Both young and handsome, Only the Sun has been too saucy with him.