WIT. Faith he do’s not hate it. But that’s not it. His belly and his palate Would be compounded with for reaſon. Mary, A wit he has, of that ſtrange credit with him, ’Gainſt all mankinde; as it doth make him doe 30 Iuſt what it liſt: it rauiſhes him forth, Whither it pleaſe, to any aſſembly’or place, And would conclude him ruin’d, ſhould hee ſcape One publike meeting, out of the beliefe He has of his owne great, and Catholike ſtrengths, 35 In arguing, and diſcourſe. It takes, I ſee: H’has got the cloak vpon him. Ingine _hath won_ Fitzdottrel, _to ’ſay on the cloake_. FIT. A faire garment, By my faith, _Ingine_! ING. It was neuer made, Sir, For three ſcore pound, I aſſure you: ’Twill yeeld thirty. The pluſh, Sir, coſt three pound, ten ſhillings a yard! 40 And then the lace, and veluet. FIT. I ſhall, _Ingine_, Be look’d at, pretitly, in it! Art thou ſure The _Play_ is play’d to day? ING. O here’s the bill, S^r. _Hee giues him the_ Play-_bill_. I’, had forgot to gi’t you. FIT. Ha? the _Diuell_! I will not loſe you, Sirah! But, _Ingine_, thinke you, 45 The Gallant is ſo furious in his folly? So mad vpon the matter, that hee’ll part With’s cloake vpo’ theſe termes? ING. Truſt not your _Ingine_, Breake me to pieces elſe, as you would doe A rotten _Crane_, or an old ruſty _Iacke_, 50 That has not one true wheele in him. Doe but talke with him. FIT. I ſhall doe that, to ſatisfie you, _Ingine_, And my ſelfe too. With your leaue, Gentlemen. _Hee turnes to_ Wittipol. Which of you is it, is ſo meere Idolater To my wiues beauty, and ſo very prodigall 55 Vnto my patience, that, for the ſhort parlee? Of one ſwift houres quarter, with my wife, He will depart with (let mee ſee) this cloake here The price of folly? Sir, are you the man? WIT. I am that vent’rer, Sir. FIT. Good time! your name 60 Is _Witty-pol_? WIT. The ſame, S^r. FIT. And ’tis told me, [103] Yo’ haue trauell’d lately? WIT. That I haue, S^r. FIT. Truly, Your trauells may haue alter’d your complexion; But ſure, your wit ſtood ſtill. WIT. It may well be, Sir. All heads ha’ not like growth. FIT. The good mans grauity, 65 That left you land, your father, neuer taught you Theſe pleaſant matches? WIT. No, nor can his mirth, With whom I make ’hem, put me off. FIT. You are Reſolu’d then? WIT. Yes, S^r.