_Harl._ I find this _Scaramouche_ is a Villain; he has left the Doctor, and is come to be Steward to a rich Widdow, whose Husband dyed Yesterday, and here he is coming to give the Poor their Doles, of which I'll ha' my Share. Scaramouche, _and poor People, with a Basket of Bread and Money_. _Scar._ Come hither, poor Devils; stand in Order, and be Damn'd. I came to distribute what your deceased good Master hath bequeath'd. [_They all stare at_ Scar. _Harl._ God bless you, Mr. Steward. _Scar._ Let me tell you, Gentlemen, he was as good a Man as ever piss'd, or cry'd Stand on the High-way. [Scaramouche _takes out a Leaf and a Shilling, holds it out, and_ Harlequin _takes it_. He spent a good Estate, 'tis true; but he was no Body's Foe but his own. I never left him while he was worth a Groat. [_Again._] He would now and then Curse in his Passion, and give a Soul to the Devil, or so; yet, what of that? He always paid his Club, and no Man can say he owes this. [_Again._] He had a Colt's Tooth, and over-laid one of his Maids; yet, what of that? All Flesh is frail. [_Again._] 'Tis thought that her Body workt him off on his Legs; why, what of that? his Legs were his own, and his Arse never hung in your Light. [_Again._] Sometimes, you'll say, he wou'd rap out an Oath; what then, Words are but Wind, and he meant no more harm than a sucking Pig does by squeaking. [_Again._] Now let's consider his good Deeds; he brew'd a Firkin of strong Drink for the poor every Year, and kill'd an old Ram every _Easter_: The Meat that was stale, and his Drink that was sowre, was always yours. [_Again._] He allow'd you in Harvest to Glean after his Rake. [_Again._] And now, at his Death, has given you all this. [_Again._ _Scar._ So, setting the Hare's Head against the Goose Giblets, he was a good Hospitable Man; and much good may do you with what you had. _Poor._ I have had nothing. _2 Poor._ Nor I. _3 Po._ Nor I. _4 Po._ Nor. I. _Scar._ Nothing. _All._ Nothing, nothing. _Scar._ Nothing, nothing; you lying Rogues, then there's something for you. [_Beats 'em all off._ _Enter_ Harlequin _in a Cloak, laughing_. _Har._ So now I am Victual'd, I may hold out Siege against Hunger. [_A Noise within; this way, this way._ Ha! they are hunting after me, and will kill me. Let me see, I will take this Gibbet for my Preserver, and with this long Cloak make as if I were hang'd. Now when they find a Man hang'd, not knowing me in this Disguise, they'll look no farther after me, but think the Thief's hang'd.----I hear 'em coming. [_Throws himself off the Ladder._ _Enter_ Scaramouche. _Scar._ Ha! what's here, a Man hang'd? But what Paper is this in his Hand? [_Whil'st_ Scaramouche _reads_, Harlequin _puts the Rope over him_. I have cheated the Poor of their Mony, and took the Bread out of their Mouths, for which I was much troubled in Conscience, fell into Dispair, and, as you see, hang'd my self. [_Pulls him up, and runs out_ O the Devil! Murder, murder!