_Soto._ In some sort I am satisfied now, mend your manners, But thou art a melancholy fellow, vengeance melancholy, And that may breed an insurrection amongst us; Go too, I'll lay the best part of two pots now Thou art in love, and I can guess with whom too, I saw the wench that twir'd and twinkled at thee, The other day; the wench that's new come hither, The young smug wench. _Sil._ You know more than I feel Sir. _Soto._ Go too, I'll be thy friend, I'll speak a good word for thee, And thou shalt have my Lordships countenance to her; May be I have had a snap my self, may be I, may be no, We Lords are allow'd a little more. _Sil._ 'Tis fit, Sir; I humbly thank ye, you are too too tender of me, But what Sir, I beseech ye, was that paper, Your Lordship was so studiously imployed in, When ye came out a-doors? _Soto._ Thou meanest this paper. _Sil._ That Sir, I think. _Soto._ Why, 'tis a Proclamation, A notable piece of villany, as ever thou heard'st in thy life, By mine honor it is. _Sil._ How Sir? or what concerns it? _Soto._ It comes ye from the Dutchess, a plaguy wise woman, To apprehend the body of one _Silvio_, As arrant a Rascal as ever pist against a post, And this same _Silvio_, or this foresaid rascal, To bring before her, live or dead; for which good service The man that brings him, has two thousand Duckets; Is not this notable matter now? _Sil._ 'Tis so indeed, This Proclamation bears my bane about it; Can no rest find me? no private place secure me? But still my miseries like blood-hounds haunt me? Unfortunate young man, which way now guides thee, Guides thee from death? the Countrey's laid round for thee; Oh _Claudio_, now I feel thy blood upon me, Now it speaks loudly here, I am sure against me, Time now has found it out, and truth proclaim'd it, And Justice now cries out, I must die for it. _Soto._ Hast thou read it? _Sil._ Yes. _Soto._ And dost thou know that _Silvio_. _Sil._ I never saw him, Sir. _Soto._ I have, and know him too, I know him as well as I know thee, and better, And if I light upon him, for a trick he plaid me once, A certain kind of dog-trick, I'll so fiddle him, Two thousand Duckets, I'll so pepper him, And with that money I'll turn Gentleman, Worth a brown Baker's dozen of such _Silvios_. _Sil._ There is no staying here, this rogue will know me, And for the money sake betray me too; I must bethink me suddenly and safely. _Enter Morris-dancers._ _Soto._ Mine own dear Lady, have-at-thy honey-comb, Now, for the honor of our Town, Boyes, trace sweetly. [_Cry within of, Arm, Arm._ Wh[at] a vengeance ails this whobub: pox refuse 'em, Cannot they let us dance in our own defence here?