Due. Hark ye, my Lords, we sit here to reward Services done to the Commonwealth; let us consider whether this be a Service to the Commonwealth or not? Lam. However, we will give him Paper for’t. Hews. Ay, let him get his Money when he can. Lam. Paper’s not so dear, and the Clerk’s Pains will be rewarded. War. Right, my gued Lord,’sbred, that _Cromwel_ was th’ faudest limmer Loon that ever cam into lour Country, the faud Diel has tane him by th’ Luggs for robbing our Houses and Land. Fleet. No swearing, my Lord. War. Weel, weel, my Loord, I’s larne to profess and lee as weel as best on ya. Hews. That may bring you profit, my Lord—but, Clerk, proceed. Clerk reads.] To _Walter Frost_, Treasurer of the Contingencies, twenty thousand Pounds. To _Thurloe_, Secretary to his Highness— Duc. To old _Noll_. Clerk reads.] —Old Noll, ten thousand Pounds, for unknown Service done the Commonwealth—To Mr. _Hutchinson_, Treasurer of the Navy, two hundred thousand Pounds— War. Two hundred thousand Pound; Owns, what a Sum’s there?—Marry it came from the Mouth of a Cannon sure. 379 Clerk reads.] A Present to the Right Honourable and truly Virtuous Lady, the Lady _Lambert_, for Service done to the late Protector— Hews. Again—say _Cromwel_. Clerk. —Cromwel—six thousand Pound in _Jacobus’s_. War. ’Sbread, sike a Sum wou’d make me honour the Face of aud _Jemmy_. Clerk. To Mr. _Ice_ six thousand Pound; to Mr. _Loether_, late Secretary to his High— Whit. To _Oliver Cromwel_ say, can you not obey Orders? Clerk. —Secretary to _Oliver Cromwel_—two thousand nine hundred ninety nine Pounds for Intelligence and Information, and piously betraying the King’s Liege People. War. Haud, haud, Sirs, Mary en ya gift se fast ya’ll gif aud away from poor _Archibald Johnson_. Whit. Speak for your self, my Lord; or rather, my Lord, do you speak for him. [To _Lam._ Lam. Do you move it for him, and I’ll do as much for you anon. [Aside to _Whit._ Whit. My Lord, since we are upon Gratifications,—let us consider the known Merit of the Lord _Wariston_, a Person of industrious Mischiefs to the malignant Party, and great Integrity to us, and the Commonwealth. War. Gued faith, an I’s ha been a trusty Trojon, Sir, what say you, may very gued and gracious Loords?— Duc. I scorn to let a Dog go unrewarded; and you, Sir, fawn so prettily, ’tis pity you shou’d miss Preferment. Hews. And so ’tis; come, come, my Lords, consider he was ever our Friend, and ’tis but reasonable we shou’d stitch up one another’s broken Fortunes. Duc. Nay, Sir, I’m not against it. All. ’Tis Reason, ’tis Reason. Free. Damn ’em, how they lavish out the Nation! War. Scribe, pretha read my Paper. Hews. Have you a Pertition there? Cob. A Petition, my Lord. 380 Hews. Pshaw, you Scholards are so troublesome. Lam. Read the Substance of it. [To the Clerk.