_Wit._ Be thankful for the blessing of prevention then. _O. K._ Le' me see, there was none hang'd out of our house since _Brute_, I ha' search't both _Stow_, and _Hollinshead_. _Wit._ O Sir. _O. K._ I'll see what _Polychronicon_ sayes anon too. _Wit._ 'Twas a miraculous fortune that I heard on't. _O. K._ I would thou'dst never heard on't. _Wit._ That's true too, So it had ne'er been done; to see the luck on't, He was ev'n brought to Justice _Aurums_ threshold, There had flew'n forth a _Mittimus_ straight for _Newgate_; And note the fortune too, Sessions a Thursday, Jury cull'd out a Friday, Judgment a Saturday, Dungeon a Sunday, Tyburne a Munday, Miseries quotidian ague, when't begins once, Every day pulls him, till he pull his last. _O. K._ No more, I say, 'tis an ill theam: where left you him? _Wit._ He's i'th' Constables hands below i'th' Hall, Sir, Poor Gentleman, and his accuser with him. _O. K._ What's he? _Wit._ A Judges Son 'tis thought, so much the worse too, He'l hang his enemy, an't shall cost him nothing, That's a great priviledge. _O. K._ Within there? _Enter_ Servant. _Ser._ Sir? _O. K._ Call up the folks i'th' Hall. I had such hope on him, For a Scholar too, a thing thou ne'er wast fit for Therefore erected all my joyes in him; Got a Welch Benefice in reversion for him, Dean of _Cardigan_, has his grace already, He can marry and bury, yet ne'er a hair on's face; _Enter_ Credulous, _Sir_ Ruinous (_as a_ Constable,) _and_ Lady Gentry (_as a Man_.) Like a French Vicar, and, Does he bring such fruits to Town with him? A Thief at his first lighting? Oh good den to you. _Wit._ Nay, sweet Sir, you'r so vext now, you'l grieve him, And hurt your self. _O. K._ Away, I'll hear no counsel; Come you but once in seven year to your Uncle, And at that time must you be brought home too? And by a Constable? _Wit._ Oh speak low, Sir, Remember your own credit, you profess You love a Man o'wit, begin at home, Sir, Express it i'your self. _Lady._ Nay, Master Constable, Shew your self a wise man, 'gainst your nature too. _Ruin._ Sir, no Dish-porridgment, we have brought home As good men as ye. _O. K._ Out, a _North-Brittain_ Constable, that tongue Will publish all, it speaks so broad already; Are you the Gentleman. _Lady._ The unfortunate one, Sir, That fell into the power of merciless Thieves, Whereof this fellow, whom I'd call your kinsman, As little as I could (for the fair reverence I owe to fame and years) was the prime villain. _O.K._ A wicked prime. _Wit._ Nay, not so loud, sweet father.