_Cred._ I was drawn into't most unfortunately, By filthy deboist company. _Wit._ I, I, I. 'Tis even the spoil of all our youth in _England_. What were they Gentlemen? _Cred._ Faith so like some on 'em, They were ev'n the worse agen. _Wit._ Hum. _Cred._ Great Tobacco [swivers], They would go near to rob with a pipe in their mouths. _Wit._ What, no? _Cred._ Faith leave it Cozen, because my Rascals use it. _Wit._ So they do meat and drink, must worthy Gentlemen Refrain their food for that? an honest man May eat of the same Pig some Parson dines with, A Lawyer and a fool feed of one Woodcock, Yet one ne'er the simpler, t'other ne'er the wiser; 'Tis not meat, drink, or smoak, dish, cup, or pipe, Co-operates to the making of a Knave, 'Tis the condition makes a slave, a slave, There's _London_ Philosophy for you; I tell you Cozen, You cannot be too cautelous, nice, or dainty, In your society here, especially When you come raw from the University, Before the World has hard'ned you a little, For as a butter'd loaf is a Scholars breakfast there, So a poach't Scholar is a cheaters dinner here, I ha' known seven of 'em supt up at a Meale. _Cred._ Why a poacht Scholar? _Wit._ 'Cause he powres himself forth, And all his secrets, at the first acquaintance, Never so crafty to be eaten i'th' shell, But is outstript of all he has at first, And goes down glib, he's swallowed with sharp wit, Stead of Wine Vinegar. _Cred._ I shall think, Cozen, O' your poach't Scholar, while I live. _Enter_ Servant. _Serv._ Master _Credulous_, Your Uncle wills you to forbear the House, You must with me, I'm charg'd to see you plac'd In some new lodging about Theeving Lane, What the conceit's, I know not, but commands you To be seen here no more, till you hear further. _Cred._ Here's a strange welcome, Sir. _Wit._ This is the World, Cozen; When a Man's fame's once poyson'd, fare thee well Lad. [_Exit_ Cred. _and_ Servant. This is the happiest cheat I e'er claim'd share in, It has a two-fold fortune, gets me coyne, And puts him out of grace, that stood between me, My fathers _Cambridge_ Jewel, much suspected To be his Heir, now there's a bar in's hopes. _Enter_ Ruinous, _and_ Lady Gentry. _Ruin._ It chinks, make haste. _Lady._ The _Goat at Smithfield Pens_. _Enter_ Cunningame. _Wit._ Zo, zo, zufficient. Master _Cuningame_? I never have ill luck when I meet a wit. _Cun._ A Wit's better to meet, than to follow then, For I ha' none so good I can commend yet, But commonly men unfortunate to themselves, Are luckiest to their friends, and so may I be.