_Ver._ Alas, sir, speak to it--you are a justice o' peace--I beseech you. I dare not stay in the house: I'll call the watch, and tell 'em hell's broke loose; what shall I do? oh! [_Exit._ _Sir Dav._ O Vermin, if thou art a true servant, have pity on thy master, and do not forsake me in this distressed condition. Satan, begone! I defy thee. I'll repent and be saved, I'll say my prayers, I'll go to church; help! help! help! Was there anything or no? in what hole shall I hide myself? [_Exit._ _Enter_ Sir JOLLY, FOURBIN, _and_ BLOODY-BONES. _Sir Jol._ That should be Sir Davy's voice; the waiting-woman, indeed, told me he was afraid and could not sleep. Pretty fellows, pretty fellows both; you've done your business handsomely; what, I'll warrant you have been a-whoring together now; ha! You do well, you do well, I like you the better for't; what's o'clock? _Four._ Near four, sir; 'twill not be day yet these two hours. _Sir Jol._ Very well, but how got ye into the house? _Four._ A ragged retainer of the family, Vermin I think they call him, let us in as physicians sent for by your order. _Sir Jol._ Excellent rogues! and then I hope all things are ready, as I gave directions? _Four._ To a tittle, sir; there shall not be a more critical observer of your worship's pleasure than your humble servant the Chevalier Fourbin. _Sir Jol._ Get you gone, you rogue, you have a sharp nose, and are a nimble fellow; I have no more to say to you, stand aside, and be ready when I call: here he comes; hist, hem, hem, hem. [_Exeunt_ FOURBIN _and_ BLOODY-BONES. _Re-enter_ Sir DAVY DUNCE. _Sir Dav._ Ha! what art thou? Approach thou like the rugged Bankside bear, The East-cheap bull, or monster shown in fair,-- Take any shape but that, and I'll confront thee! _Sir Jol._ Alas, unhappy man! I am thy friend. _Sir Dav._ Thou canst not be my friend, for I defy thee. Sir Jolly! neighbour! ha! is it you? are you sure it is you? are you yourself? if you be, give me your hand. Alas-a-day, I ha' seen the devil. _Sir Jol._ The devil, neighbour? _Sir Dav._ Ay, ay, there's no help for't; at first I fancied it was a young white bear's cub dancing in the shadow of my candle; then it was turned to a pair of blue breeches with wooden legs on, stamped about the room, as if all the cripples in town had kept their rendezvous there; when all of a sudden, it appeared like a leathern serpent, and with a dreadful clap of thunder flew out of the window. _Sir Jol._ Thunder! why, I heard no thunder. _Sir Dav._ That may be too; what, were you asleep? _Sir Jol._ Asleep, quoth-a? no, no; no sleeping this night for me, I assure you. _Sir Dav._ Well, what's the best news then? How does the man?