Blunt. How a Necklace! unconscionable Rogue, not to let me share: well, there is no Friendship in the World; I hope they’l hang him. Shift. He’ll ne’er confess without the Rack—come, we’ll toss him in a Blanket. Feth. Hah, toss me in a Blanket, that will turn my Stomach most villainously, and I shall disimbogue and discover all. Shift. Come, come, the Blanket. [They lay hold on him. Feth. Hold, hold, I do confess, I do confess— Shift. Restore, and have your Pardon. Feth. That is not in Nature at present, for Gentlemen, I have eat ’em. Shift. ’Sdeath, I’ll dissect ye. [Goes to draw. Will. Let me redeem him; here Boy, take him to my Chamber, and let the Doctor glyster him soundly, and I’ll warrant you your Pearl again. Feth. If this be the end of travelling, I’ll e’en to old _England_ again, take the Covenant, get a Sequestrator’s Place, grow rich, and defy all Cavaliering. Beau. ’Tis Morning, let’s home, _Ariadne_, and try, if possible, to love so well to be content to marry; if we find that amendment in our Hearts, to say we dare believe and trust each other, then let it be a Match. Aria. With all my Heart. Will. You have a hankering after Marriage still, but I am for Love and Gallantry. So tho by several ways we gain our End, Love still, like Death, does to one Center tend. 212 EPILOGUE Spoken by Mrs. _BARRY_. POETS are Kings of Wit, and you appear A Parliament, by Play-Bill, summon’d here; When e’er in want, to you for aid they fly, And a new Play’s the Speech that begs supply: But now— The scanted Tribute is so slowly paid, Our Poets must find out another Trade; They’ve tried all ways th’ insatiate Clan to please, Have parted with their old Prerogatives, Their Birth-right Satiring, and their just pretence Of judging even their own Wit and Sense; And write against their Consciences, to show How dull they can be to comply with you. They’ve flatter’d all the Mutineers i’th’ Nation, Grosser than e’er was done in Dedication; Pleas’d your sick Palates with Fantastick Wit, Such as was ne’er a treat before to th’ Pit; Giants, fat Cardinals, Pope Joans and Fryers, To entertain Right Worshipfuls and Squires: Who laugh and cry Ads Nigs, ’tis woundy good, When the fuger’s all the Jest that’s understood. And yet you’ll come but once, unless by stealth, Except the Author be for Commonwealth; Then half Crown more you nobly throw away, And tho my Lady seldom see a Play, She, with her eldest Daughter, shall be boxt that day. Then Prologue comes, Ads-lightikins, crys Sir _John_, You shall hear notable Conceits anon: 213 How neatly, Sir, he’ll bob the Court and French King, And tickle away—you know who—for Wenching. All this won’t do, they e’en may spare their Speeches, For all their greasing will not buy ’em Britches; To get a penny new found ways must take, As forming Popes, and Squibs and Crackers make. In Coffee-Houses some their talent vent, Rail for the Cause against the Government, And make a pretty thriving living on’t,