_Ill-W._ Will ye go hence? I thank ye, masters, with all my heart! I will seek you out, I warrant you! fear not! Now they be gone; I am glad, by Saint Mary! A little while here I purpose to tarry: How to deceive Wealth, Health, and Liberty Now must I devise. For I am a child that is past grace; Ill-Will--I am called that in every place-- Doth much mischief; this is a plain case: Virtue I do utterly despise. But if they wist what I were, Then of my purpose I should be never the near: I will keep my tongue lest that I mar My whole intent and will. But now I marvel, by this day! Where Shrewd Wit is gone astray; Some crafty touch is in his way-- I hear him! peace! stand still! [_Entereth_ SHREWD WIT _with a song_. _Dieu vous garde playsaunce!_ On seven or on mumchance, what yonkers dare avance B3,_v._ To play a groat or twain? Lo! here I have in store Two or three groats, and no more; I take great thought, therefore, For to keep it; it is much pain. I come now out of a place Where is a company of small grace: Thieves and whores that spends apace-- They were drunken all the sort. One of their purses I did aspy Out of his sleeve, where it did lie; And one winked on me with his eye: But there began the sport. There False Falsehood, and I, Crafty Wit Got the purse: lo! here I have it. I came my way and let him sit, Smoke and shitten arse together. And if that I had Ill-Will here, With this money we would make good cheer. Gentle brother Will! I pray thee, appear! For thou art in some corner. _Ill-W._ [_from without._] I would come in, but I am afeard Lest that I be taken by the beard With some catchpoll; I have heard How thou hast stolen a purse. _Wit._ Thou whoreson! art thou mad? come in, I say! [ILL-WILL _comes in_. This is not the first hazard that I have scaped; If I make an hand to deck myself gay, What am I the worse? _Ill-W._ From thy company I cannot abide; I must needs hold upon thy side: Ill-Will and Shrewd Wit, who can hide? B4,_r._ For they will be together. _Wit._ Now welcome, Will! and what cheer? By God! I thought for thee a thousand year. Peace! for God's body! who cometh there? Hance Beerpot, a scon router! [_Entereth_ HANCE _with a Dutch song_. [_Hance._] Gut, mynen scone rutters, by the moder Got! Ic heist nowne schon, for stave ye nete De qusteke man, iche bie do do? Van the groate bumbarde well ic wete Dartyck dowsant van enheb it mete Ic best de manikin van de keining dangliter De grot keyser kind ic bene his kusketer. _Ill-W._ Hear ye not drunken Hance, how he begins to prate? The malapert Fleming is a little too checkmate.