_Boy._ A rich man, that like snow heaps up his moneys, I have a kind of pious zeal to meet still; A fool that not deserves 'em, I take pitty on, For fear he should run mad, and so I ease him. _Lur._ Excellent boy, and able to instruct me, Of mine own nature just. _Boy._ I scorn all hazard, And on the edge of danger I do best, Sir, I have a thousand faces to deceive, And to those, twice so many tongues to flatter, An impudence, no brass was ever tougher, And for my conscience. _Lur._ Peace, I have found a Jewel, A Jewel all the _Indies_ cannot match, And thou sha't feel-- _Boy._ This title, and I ha' done, Sir; I never can confess, I ha' that spell on me; And such rare modesties before a Magistrate, Such innocence to catch a Judge, such ignorance. _Lur._ I'll learn of thee, thou art mine own, come boy, I'll give thee action presently. _Boy._ Have at you. _Lur._ What must I call thee? _Boy. Snap_, Sir. _Lur._ 'Tis most natural, A name born to thee, sure thou art a Fairy, Shew but thy skill, and I shall make thee happy. _Enter Lady, Nurse, Mistriss_, Newlove, Tobie. _La._ Where be these knaves? who strues up all the liveries. Is the Bride's bed made? _Tob._ Yes Madam and a Bell Hung under it artificially. _La._ Out knave, out, Must we have 'larms now? _Tob._ A little warning That we may know [when] to begin our healths Madam; The Justice is a kind of old Jade, Madam, That will go merriest with a Bell. _La._ All the house drunk. _Tob._ This is a [day] of Jubile. _La._ Are the best hangings up? and the Plate set out? Who makes the Posset, Nurse? _Nur._ The dayrie mayd, And she'll put that in, will make him caper: Well Madam, well, you might ha'chose another, A handsomer for your years. _La._ Peace, he is rich Nurse, He is rich, and that's beauty. _Nur._ I am sure he is rotten, Would he had been hang'd when he first saw her. _Termagant!_ _La._ What an angry Quean is this, where, Who looks to him? _Tob._ He is very merry Madam, _M. Wildbrain_, has him in hand, ith'bottom o'th'Sellar He sighs and tipples. _Nur._ Alass good Gentleman, My heart's sore for thee. _La._ Sorrow must have his course, sirra, Give him some Sack to dry up his remembrance, How does the Bridegroom, I was afraid of him. _Nur._ He is a trim youth to be tender of, hemp take him. Must my sweet new blown Rose find such a winter Before her spring be near. _La._ Peace, peace, thou art foolish. _Nur._ And dances like a Town-top: and reels, and hobbles. _La._ Alass, good Gentleman, give him not much wine. _Tob._ He shall ha'none by my consent. _La._ Are the women comforting my daughter?