_Mor_. A thousand Sir, provided any wise Sir, his Land lye for the payment, otherwise-- _Enter_ Young Loveless _and_ Comrades _to them._ _Savil_. He's here himself Sir, and can better tell you. _Mor_. My notable dear friend, and worthy Master _Loveless_, and now right worshipfull, all joy and welcom. _Yo. Lo_. Thanks to my dear incloser Master _Morecraft_, prethee old Angel gold, salute my family, I'le do as much for yours; this, and your own desires, fair Gentlewoman. _Wid_. And yours Sir, if you mean well; 'tis a hansome Gentleman. _Young Lo_. Sirrah, my Brother's dead. _More_. Dead? _Yo. Lo_. Dead, and by this time soust for Ember Week. _Morecraft_. Dead? _Young Lo_. Drown'd, drown'd at sea man, by the next fresh Conger that comes we shall hear more. _Mor._ Now by my faith of my body it moves me much. _Yo. Lo._ What, wilt thou be an Ass, and weep for the dead? why I thought nothing but a general inundation would have mov'd thee, prethe be quiet, he hath left his land behind him. _Morecraft._ O has he so? _Young Lo._ Yes faith, I thank him for't, I have all boy, hast any ready mony? _Morecraft._ Will you sell Sir? _Young Lo._ No not out right good Gripe; marry, a morgage or such a slight securitie. _More._ I have no mony, Sir, for Morgage; if you will sell, and all or none, I'le work a new Mine for you. _Sav._ Good Sir look before you, he'l work you out of all else: if you sell all your Land, you have sold your Country, and then you must to Sea, to seek your Brother, and there lye pickled in a Powdering tub, and break your teeth with Biskets and hard Beef, that must have watering Sir: and where's your 300 pounds a year in drink then? If you'l tun up the Straights you may, for you have no calling for drink there, but with a Canon, nor no scoring but on your Ships sides, and then if you scape with life, and take a Faggot boat and a bottle of _Usquebaugh_, come home poor men, like a tipe of Thames-street stinking of Pitch and Poor-John. I cannot tell Sir, I would be loth to see it. _Capt._ Steward, you are an Ass, a meazel'd mungril, and were it not again the peace of my soveraign friend here, I would break your fore-casting Coxcomb, dog I would even with my staffe of Office there. Thy Pen and Inkhorn Noble boy, the God of gold here has fed thee well, take mony for thy durt: hark and believe, thou art cold of constitution, thy eat unhealthful, sell and be wise; we are three that will adorn thee, and live according to thine own heart child; mirth shall be only ours, and only ours shall be the black eyed beauties of the time. Mony makes men Eternal. _Poet._ Do what you will, 'tis the noblest course, then you may live without the charge of people, only we four will make a Family, I and an Age that will beget new _Annals_, in which I'le write thy life my son of pleasure, equal with _Nero_ and _Caligula_. _Young Lo._ What men were they Captain? _Capt_. Two roaring Boys of _Rome_, that made all split.