Do, my Lord, And look not after credit, we shall cure that, Your bended honesty we shall set right, Sir, We Surgeons of the Law do desperate Cures, Sir, And you shall see how heartily I'le handle it: Mark how I'le knock it home: be of good chear, Sir, You give good Fees, and those beget good Causes, The Prerogative of your Crowns will carry the matter, (Carry it sheer) the _Assistant_ sits to morrow, And he's your friend, your monyed men love naturally, And as your loves are clear, so are your Causes. _Hen_. He shall not want for that. _Bar_. No, no, he must not, Line your Cause warmly, Sir, the times are Aguish, That holds a Plea in heart; hang the penurious, Their Causes (like their purses) have poor Issues. _Hen_. That way, I was ever bountiful. _Bar_. 'Tis true, Sir, That makes ye fear'd, forces the Snakes to kneel to ye, Live full of mony, and supply the Lawyer, And take your choice of what mans lands you please, Sir, What pleasures, or what profits; what revenges, They are all your own: I must have witnesses Enough, and ready. _Hen_. You shall not want, my _Bartolus_. _Bar_. Substantial fearless souls, that will swear suddenly, That will swear any thing. _Hen_. They shall swear truth too. _Bar_. That's no great matter: for variety They may swear truth, else 'tis not much look'd after: I will serve Process, presently, and strongly, Upon your Brother, and _Octavio_, _Jacintha_, and the Boy; provide your proofs, Sir, And set 'em fairly off, be sure of Witnesses, Though they cost mony, want no store of witnesses, I have seen a handsome Cause so foully lost, Sir, So beastly cast away for want of Witnesses. _Hen_. There shall want nothing. _Bar_. Then be gone, be provident, Send to the Judge a secret way: you have me, And let him understand the heart. _Hen_. I shall, Sir. _Bar_. And feel the pulses strongly beat, I'le study, And at my hour, but mark me, go, be happy, Go and believe i'th' Law. _Hen_. I hope 'twill help me. [_Exeunt_. SCENA II. _Enter_ Lopez, Diego, _and four_ Parishioners _and_ Singers. _Lop_. Ne're talk to me, I will not stay amongst ye, Debaush'd and ignorant lazie knaves I found ye, And fools I leave ye. I have taught these twenty years, Preacht spoon-meat to ye, that a Child might swallow, Yet ye are Block-heads still: what should I say to ye? Ye have neither faith, nor mony left to save ye, Am I a fit companion for such Beggers? 1. If the Shepheard will suffer the sheep to be scab'd, Sir-- _Lop_. No, no ye are rotten. _Die_. Would they were, for my sake. _Lap_.