_Young Lo_. He shall dance, and drink, and be drunk and dance, and be drunk again, and shall see no meat in a year. _Poet._ And three quarters? _Young Lo._ And three quarters be it. _Capt._ Who knocks there? let him in. _Enter_ Elder Loveless _disguised._ _Savill._ Some to deliver me I hope. _Elder Lo._ Gentlemen, God save you all, my business is to one Master _Loveless_? _Capt._ This is the Gentleman you mean; view him, and take his Inventorie, he's a right one. _Elder Lo._ He promises no less Sir. _Young Lo._ Sir, your business? _Elder Lo._ Sir, I should let you know, yet I am loth, yet I am sworn to't, would some other tongue would speak it for me. _Young Lo._ Out with it i' Gods name. _Elder Lo._ All I desire Sir is, the patience and sufferance of a man, and good Sir be not mov'd more. _Young Lo._ Then a pottle of sack will doe, here's my hand, prethee thy business? _Elder Lo._ Good Sir excuse me, and whatsoever you hear, think must have been known unto you, and be your self discreet, and bear it nobly. _Young Lo._ Prethee dispatch me. _Elder Lo._ Your Brother's dead Sir. _Young Lo._ Thou dost not mean dead drunk? _Elder Lo._ No, no, dead and drown'd at sea Sir. _Young Lo._ Art sure he's dead? _Elder Lo._ Too sure Sir. _Young Lo._ I but art thou very certainly sure of it? _Elder Lo._ As sure Sir, as I tell it. _Young Lo._ But art thou sure he came not up again? _Elder Lo._ He may come up, but ne're to call you Brother. _Young Lo._ But art sure he had water enough to drown him? _Elder Lo._ Sure Sir, he wanted none. _Young Lo._ I would not have him want, I lov'd him better; here I forgive thee: and i'faith be plain, how do I bear it? _Elder Lo._ Very wisely Sir. _Young Lo_. Fill him some wine. Thou dost not see me mov'd, these transitorie toyes ne're trouble me, he's in a better place, my friend I know't. Some fellows would have cryed now, and have curst thee, and faln out with their meat, and kept a pudder; but all this helps not, he was too good for us, and let God keep him: there's the right use on't friend. Off with thy drink, thou hast a spice of sorrow makes thee dry: fill him another. _Savill_, your Master's dead, and who am I now _Savill_? Nay, let's all bear it well, wipe _Savill_ wipe, tears are but thrown away: we shall have wenches now, shall we not _Savill_? _Savill_. Yes Sir. _Young Lo_. And drink innumerable. _Savil_. Yes forsooth. _Young Lo_. And you'll strain curtsie and be drunk a little? _Savil_. I would be glad, Sir, to doe my weak endeavour. _Yo. Lo_. You may be brought in time to love a wench too. _Savil_. In time the sturdie Oak Sir. _Young Lo_. Some more wine for my friend there. _Elder Lo_. I shall be drunk anon for my good news: but I have a loving Brother, that's my comfort.