_Gill._ You are not mad upon the sudden now. _Fra._ No _Gill_. I have been mad these five hours: I'll sell my Mill, and buy a Roring. I'll batter down his house, and make a Stewes on't. _Gill._ Will you gather up your wits a little And hear me? the King's near by in progress, Here I have got our supplication drawn, And there's the way to help us. _Fra._ Give it me (_Gill._) I will not fear to give it to the King: To his own hands (God bless him) will I give it, And he shall set the Law upon their shoulders, And hang 'em all that had a hand in it. _Gill._ Where's your Son? _Fra._ He shall be hang'd in flitches: The Dogs shall eat him in _Lent_, there's Cats-meat And Dogs-meat enough about him. _Gill._ Sure the poor Girl is the _Counts_ whore by this time. _Fra._ If she be the _Counts_ whore, the whores _Count_ Shall pay for it: He shall pay for a new Maiden-head. _Gill._ You are so violous: this I'm resolv'd, If she be a whore once, I'll renounce her, You know, if every man had his right, She's none of our child, but a meer foundling, (And I can guess the owner for a need too) We have but foster'd her. _Fra. Gill._ no more of that, I'll cut your tongue out, if you tell those tales. Hark, hark, these _Toaters_ tell us the King's coming: Get you gone; I'll see if I can find him. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lisauro, Tersa, Pedro, _and_ Moncado. _Lis._ Does the King remove to day? _Ter._ So saies the Harbengers, And keeps his way on to _Valentia_, There ends the progress. _Ped._ He hunts this morning Gentlemen, And dines i'th' fields: the Court is all in readiness. _Lis. Pedro_, did you send for this Tailor? or you _Moncado_? This light _French_ Demi-launce that follows us. _Ped._ No, I assure ye on my word, I am guiltless, I owe him too much to be inward with him. _Mon._ I am not quit I am sure: there is a reckoning Of some four scarlet cloaks, and two lac'd suits Hangs on the file still, like a fearful Comet Makes me keep off. _Lis._ I am in too Gentlemen, I thank his faith, for a matter of three hundred. _Ter._ And I for two, what a devil makes he this way? I do not love to see my sins before me. _Ped._ 'Tis the vacation, and these things break out To see the Court, and glory in their debtors. _Ter._ What do you call him for? I never love To remember their names that I owe money to, 'Tis not gentile; I shun 'em like the plague ever. _Lis._ His name's _Vertigo_: hold your heads, and wonder, A French-man, and a founder of new Fashions: The revolutions of all shapes and habits Run madding through his brains. [_Enter_ Vertigo. _Mon._ He is very brave. _Lis._ The shreds of what he steals from us, believe it, Makes him a mighty man: he comes, have at ye.