_Bayl._ Nay, that had been no prayer, there were those That run that prayer out of breath, yet fail'd too. There was a Fryer, now ye talk of prayer, With a huge bunch of Beads, like a rope of Onions: I am sure as big, that out of fear and prayer, In halfe an hour, wore 'em as small as Bugles, Yet he was flead too. _Phil._ At what hour was this? _Bayl._ Some two hours since. _Theo._ Do you think the passage sure now. _Bayl._ Yes, a rope take 'em, as it will, and bless 'em, They have done for this day sure. _Phil._ Are many rifled? _Bayl._ At the least a dozen, And there left bound. _Theo._ How came you free? _Bayl._ A curtesie They use out of their rogueships, to bequeath To one, that when they give a sign from far Which is from out of danger; he may presently Release the rest, as I met you, I was going, Having the sign from yonder hill to do it. _Theo._ Alas poor men. _Phil._ Mine Host, pray go untie 'em. _Die._ Let me alone for cancelling: where are they? _Bayl._ In every bush, like black birds, you cannot miss 'em. _Die._ I need not stalk unto 'em. [_Exit._ _Bayl._ No, they'l stand ye, My busie life for yours Sir: you would wonder To see the several tricks and strange behaviours Of the poor rascals in their miseries, One weeps, another laughs at him for weeping, A third is monstrous angry, he can laugh And cries, go too, this is no time; he laughs still, A fourth exhorts to patience: him a fifth man Curses for tameness; him a Fryer schools, All hoot the Fryer, here one sings a Ballad, And there a little Curate confutes him, And in this linsey-woolsey way, that would make a dog Forget his dinner, or an old man fire, They rub out for their ransoms: Amongst the rest, There is a little boy rob'd, a fine child, It seems a Page: I must confess my pitty (As 'tis a hard thing in a man of my place) To shew compassion, stirr'd at him, so finely And without noise he carries his afflictions, And looks as if he had but dreamt of losing. _Enter Host and_ Leocadia, _and others as rob'd._ This boy's the glory of this robbery, The rest but shame the action: now ye may hear 'em. _Host._ Come lads, 'tis Holy-day: hang cloaths, 'tis hot, And sweating Agues are abroad. _1._ It seems so; For we have met with rare Physitians To cure us of that malady. _Host._ Fine footing, Light and deliver: now my boys: Master Fryer, How does your Holiness, bear up man; what A cup of neat Sack now and a toast: ha, Fryer, A warm plaister to your belly Father, There were a blessing now. _Fryer._ Ye say your mind Sir. _Host._ Where my fine Boy: my poynter. _Bayl._ There's the wonder.