_Sub._ 'Umh, Free of the Grocers?[F. 96] _Dru._ I, and't please you. _Sub._ Well, Your business _Abel_? _Dru._ This, and't please your Worship, I am a yong beginner, and am building Of a new shop, and't like your worship, just At Corner of a Street: (Here's the plot on't.) And I would know, by art, Sir, of your Worship, Which way I should make my dore, by _Necromancie_. And where my Shelves. And which should be for Boxes, And which for Potts. I would be glad to thrive, Sir, And, I was wish'd to your Worship by a Gentleman, One Captaine _Face_, that say's you know mens _Planets_, And their good _Angels_, and their bad. _Sub._ I doe If I do see 'hem.[F. 97] _Face._ What! my honest _Abel_? Thou art well met here. _Dru._ Troth, Sir, I was speaking Just as your Worship came here, of your Worship. I pray you, speake for me to M^r Doctor. _Face._ He shall doe anything. Doctor, doe you heare? This is my friend, _Abel_, an honest fellow. * * * * * _Sub._ H'is a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on. _Face._ Already, Sir, ha' you found it? Lo' the _Abel_! _Sub._ And in right way to'ward riches. _Face._ Sir! _Sub._ This Summer He will be of the Clothing[F. 98] of his Company. And, next spring, call'd to the Scarlet.[F. 99] Spend what he can. _Face._ What, and so little Beard? _Sub._ Sir, you must thinke, He may have a receipt to make hayre come. But he'll be wise, preserve his youth, and fine[F. 100] for't. His fortune lookes for him, another way. _Face._ 'Slid, Doctor, how canst thou know this so soone? I am amus'd at that! _Sub._ By a rule, Captayne In _Metaposcopie_ which I doe worke by, A certaine Starre i' the forehead, which you see not. Your Chest-nut, or your Olive colourd face Do's never fayle; and your long Eare doth promise. I knew't, by certaine spotts too, in his teeth, And on the nayle of his _Mercurial_ finger. _Face._ Which finger's that? _Sub._ His little finger, Looke. Yo' were borne upon a Wensday. _Drug._ Yes, indeed, Sir. _Sub._ The Thumbe, in _Chiromantie_, we give _Venus_; The Fore-finger to _Iove_; the Midst, to _Saturne_; The Ring to _Sol_, the Least to Mercurie, Who was the Lord, Sir, of his _Horoscope_, His _House of Life_ being _Libra_. Which foreshew'd He should be a Marchant, and should trade with Ballance. _Face._ Why, this is strange! Is't not, honest _Nab_? _Sub._ There is a Ship now, comming from Ormu's, That shall yeeld him such a Commoditie Of Drugs. This is the West, and this the South? _Drug._ Yes Sir.