Sir Perfidious Oldcraft, _an old Knight, a great admirer of Wit_. Witty-pate Oldcraft, _his Fathers own Son_. Sir Gregory Fopp, _a witless Lord of Land_. Cunningham, _a discreet Gen. Sir_ Gregories _comrade and supplanter_. Sir Ruinous Gentry, _a decayed Knight_, } _Two sharking_ Priscian, _a poor Scholar_, } _companions_. Pompey Doodle, _a clown_, Sir Gregories _man, a piece of puff-paste, like his Master_. Mr. Credulous, _Nephew to Sir_ Perfidio[u]s, _a shallow-brain'd Scholar_. WOMEN. Neece _to Sir_ Perfidious, _a rich and witty Heir_. Lady Ruinous, _Wife to_ Sir Ruinous. Guardianess, _to_ Sir Perfidious _his Neece, an old doting Crone_. Mirabell, _the Guardianesses Neece_. The Scene, London. _Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter Sir_ Perfidious Oldcraft _an old Knight, and_ Witty-pate _his Son_. _Witty._ Sir, I'm no boy, I'm deep in one and twenty, The second years approaching. _Old K._ A fine time For a youth to live by his wits then I should think, If e'er he mean to make account of any. _Witty._ Wits, Sir? _Old K._ I Wits Sir, if it be so strange to thee, I'm sorry I spent that time to get a Fool, I might have imploy'd my pains a great deal better; Thou knowst all that I have, I ha' got by my wits, And yet to see how urgent thou art too; It grieves me thou art so degenerate To trouble me for means, I never offer'd it My Parents from a School-boy, past nineteen once, See what these times are grown to, before twenty I rush'd into the world, which is indeed Much like the Art of swiming, he that will attain to't Must fall plump, and duck himself at first, And that will make him hardy and advent'rous, And not stand putting in one foot, and shiver, And then draw t'other after, like a quake-buttock; Well he may make a padler i'th' world, From hand to mouth, but never a brave Swimmer, Born up by th' chin, as I bore up my self, With my strong industry that never fail'd me; For he that lies born up with Patrimonies, Looks like a long great Ass that swims with bladders, Come but one prick of adverse fortune to him He sinks, because he never try'd to swim When Wit plaies with the billows that choak'd him. _Witty._ Why is it not a fashion for a Father, Sir, Out of his yearly thousands to allow His only Son, a competent brace of hundreds; Or such a toy?