_Buss._ What will he send? some crowns? It is to sow them Upon my spirit, and make them spring a crowne 120 Worth millions of the seed crownes he will send. Like to disparking noble husbandmen, Hee'll put his plow into me, plow me up; But his unsweating thrift is policie, And learning-hating policie is ignorant 125 To fit his seed-land soyl; a smooth plain ground Will never nourish any politick seed. I am for honest actions, not for great: If I may bring up a new fashion, And rise in Court for vertue, speed his plow! 130 The King hath knowne me long as well as hee, Yet could my fortune never fit the length Of both their understandings till this houre. There is a deepe nicke in Times restlesse wheele For each mans good, when which nicke comes, it strikes; 135 As rhetorick yet workes not perswasion, But only is a meane to make it worke: So no man riseth by his reall merit, But when it cries "clincke" in his raisers spirit. Many will say, that cannot rise at all, 140 Mans first houres rise is first step to his fall. I'le venture that; men that fall low must die, As well as men cast headlong from the skie. _Ent[er] Maffe._ [_Maffe._] Humor of Princes! Is this wretch indu'd With any merit worth a thousand crownes? 145 Will my lord have me be so ill a steward Of his revenue, to dispose a summe So great, with so small cause as shewes in him? I must examine this. Is your name D'Ambois? _Buss._ Sir? _Maff._ Is your name D'Ambois? _Buss._ Who have we here? 150 Serve you the Monsieur? _Maff._ How? _Buss._ Serve you the Monsieur? _Maff._ Sir, y'are very hot. I doe serve the Monsieur; But in such place as gives me the command Of all his other servants: and because His Graces pleasure is to give your good 155 His passe through my command, me thinks you might Use me with more respect. _Buss._ Crie you mercy! Now you have opened my dull eies, I see you, And would be glad to see the good you speake of: What might I call your name? _Maff._ Monsieur Maffe. 160 _Buss._ Monsieur Maffe? Then, good Monsieur Maffe, Pray let me know you better. _Maff._ Pray doe so, That you may use me better. For your selfe, By your no better outside, I would judge you To be some poet. Have you given my lord 165 Some pamphlet? _Buss._ Pamphlet! _Maff._ Pamphlet, sir, I say. _Buss._ Did your great masters goodnesse leave the good, That is to passe your charge to my poore use, To your discretion?