_Law._ I an't like your Majesty, I am a Lawyer, I can make her a Joynture of any mans Land in _Naples_, And she shall keep it too, I have a trick for it. _Fool._ Canst thou make her a Joynture of thine honesty? Or thy abili[t]y, thou lewd abridgment? Those are non suted and flung o're the bar. _Phy._ An't please your Majesty to give me leave, I dare accept her; and though old I seem, Lady, Like _Æson_, by my art I can renew youth and ability. _Fool._ In a powdering Tub Stew thy self tender again, like a Cock Chicken, The broth may be good, but the flesh is not fit for dogs sure. _Capt._ Lady, take me, and I'le maintain thine honour, I am a poor Captain, as poor people call me, Very poor people, for my Souldiers They are quartered in the outside of the City, Men of ability, to make good a high way; We have but two grand Enemies that oppose us, The _Don Gout_, and the Gallows. _Fool._ I believe ye, and both these you will bind her for a Jointure; Now Signior firk. _Cut-purse._ Madam, take me and be wise, I am rich and nimble, and those are rare in one man, Every mans pocket is my Treasury, And no man wears a Sute but fits me neatly; Cloaths you shall have, and wear the purest Linnen, I have a tribute out of every Shop, Lady, Meat you shall eat, I have my Caters out too, The best and lustiest, and drink good Wine, good Lady, Good quickening Wine, Wine that will make you caper. And at the worst-- _Fool._ It is but capering short, Sir, You seldom stay for Agues or for Surfeits, A shaking fit of a whip sometimes o'retakes ye, Marry you dye most commonly of choakings, Obstructions of the halter are your ends ever; Pray leave your horn and your knife for her to live on. _Eva._ Poor wretched people, why do you wrong your selves? Though I fear'd death, I should fear you ten times more, You are every one a new death, and an odious, The earth will purifie corrupted bodies, You'll make us worse and stink eternally. Go home, go home and get good Nurses for you, Dream not of Wives. _Fred._ You shall have one of 'em, if they dare venture for ye. _Evan._ They are dead already, Crawling diseases that must creep into The next grave they find open, are these fit Husbands For her you have loved, Sir? though you hate me now, And hate me mortally, as I hate you, Your nobleness, in that you have done otherwise, And named _Evanthe_ once as your poor Mistris, Might offer worthier choice. _Fre._ Speak, who dare take her for one moneth, and then dye? _Phy._ Dye, Sir? _Fred._ I, dye Sir, that's the condition.