_Boy._ Why lockt up in that room. I saw the old Lady, ere she went to bed Put up her plate, and some of the rich hangings In a small long chest, and chains and rings are there too, It stands close by the Table on a form. _Lur._ 'Twas a good notice, didst thou see the men. _Boy._ I saw them sad too, and all take their leaves, But what they said I was too far to hear Sir. _Lur._ 'Tis daintily discover'd, we shall certainly Have a most prosperous night, which way? _Boy._ A close one, A back door, that the women have left open, To go in and out to fetch necessaries, Close on the Garden side. _Lur._ I love [thy] diligence, Wert thou not fearful? _Boy._ Fearful? I'll be hang'd first. _Lur._ Say they had spied thee. _Boy._ I was then determin'd To have cry'd down right too, and have kept 'em company, As one that had an interest in their sadness, Or made an errand to I know not whom Sir. _Lur._ My dainty Boy, let us discharge, that plate Makes a perpetual motion in my fingers, Till I have fast hold of it. _Boy._ Pray be wise Sir, do't handsomly, be not greedy, Lets handle it with such an excellence As if we would bring thieving into honor: We must disguise, to fright these reverend wat[ch]es. _Lur._ Still my blest Boy. _Boy._ And clear the room of drunken jealousies, The chest is of some weight, and we may make Such noise [ith] carriage we may be snap'd. _Lur._ Come open, here's a devils face. _Boy._ No, no, Sir, wee'l have no shape so terrible, We will not do the devil so much pleasure, To have him face our plot. _Lur._ A winding sheet then. _Boy._ That's too cold a shift, I would not wear the reward of my wickedness, I wonder you are an old thief, and no cunninger, Where's the long Cloak? _Lur._ Here, here. _Boy._ Give me the Turbant And the false beard, I hear some coming this way, Stoop, stoop, and let me sit upon your shoulders, And now as I direct, stay, let them enter, And when I touch move forward, make no noise. _Enter Nurse and_ Tobie. _Nur._ Oh 'tis a sad time, all the burnt wine is [drunke] _Nic._ _Tob._ We may thank your dry chaps for't, the Canarie's gone too No substance for a sorrowful mind to work upon, I cannot mourn in beer, if she should walk now As discontented spirits are wont to do. _Nur._ And meet us in the Cellar. _Tob._ What fence have we with single beer against her? What heart can we defie the Devil with? _Nur._ The March beer's open. _Tob._ A fortification of March beer will do well, I must confess 'tis a most mighty Armor, For I presume I cannot pray. _Nur._ Why _Nicolas_? _Tob._ We Coachmen have such tumbling faiths, no prayrs Can go an even pace. _Nur._ Hold up your candle.