Wel. Marry, the law forbid, sir! Bob. By Pharaoh's foot, I would have done it. Step. Oh, he swears most admirably! By Pharaoh's foot! Body O' Caesar!--I shall never do it, sure. Upon mine honour, and by St. George!--No, I have not the right grace. Mat. Master Stephen, will you any? By this air, the most divine tobacco that ever I drunk. [Practises at the post. As I am a gentleman! By-- [Exeunt Bob. and Mat. Step. None, I thank you, sir. O, this gentleman does it rarely, too: but nothing like the other. By this air! Brai. [pointing to Master Stephen.] Master, glance, glance! master Wellbred! Step. As I have somewhat to be saved, I protest-- Wel. You are a fool; it needs no affidavit. E. Know. Cousin, will you any tobacco? Step. I, sir! Upon my reputation-- E. Know. How now, cousin! Step. I protest, as I am a gentleman, but no soldier, indeed-- Wel. No, master Stephen! As I remember, your name is entered in the artillery-garden. Step. Ay, sir, that's true. Cousin, may I swear, as I am a soldier, by that? E. Know. O yes, that you may; it is all you have for your money. Step. Then, as I am a gentleman, and a soldier, it is "divine tobacco!" Wel. But soft, where's master Mathew! Gone? Brai. No, sir; they went in here. Wel. O let's follow them: master Mathew is gone to salute his mistress in verse; we shall have the happiness to hear some of his poetry now; he never comes unfinished.--Brainworm! Step. Brainworm! Where? Is this Brainworm? E. Know. Ay, cousin; no words of it, upon your gentility. Step. Not I, body of me! By this air! St. George! and the foot of Pharaoh! Wel. Rare! Your cousin's discourse is simply drawn out with oaths. E. Know. 'Tis larded with them; a kind of French dressing, if you love it. [Exeunt. SCENE III-Coleman-Street. A Room in Justice CLEMENT'S House. Enter KITELY and COB. Kit. Ha! how many are there, say'st thou? Cob. Marry, sir, your brother, master Wellbred-- Kit. Tut, beside him: what strangers are there, man? Cob. Strangers? let me see, one, two; mass; I know not well,-- there are so many. Kit. How! so many? Cob. Ay, there's some five or six of them at the most. Kit. A swarm, a swarm! Spite of the devil...how they sting my head With forked stings, thus wide and large! But, Cob, How long hast thou been coming hither, Cob? Cob. A little while, sir. Kit. Didst thou come running? Cob. No, sir.