_Man._ That you would do for your own honour. But what else? _Free._ I would lend you money, if I had it. _Man._ To borrow more of me another time. That were putting your money to interest; a usurer would be as good a friend.--But what other piece of friendship? _Free._ I would speak well of you to your enemies. _Man._ To encourage others to be your friends, by a show of gratitude.--But what else? _Free._ Nay, I would not hear you ill spoken of behind your back by my friend. _Man._ Nay, then, thou'rt a friend, indeed.--But it were unreasonable to expect it from thee, as the world goes now, when new friends, like new mistresses, are got by disparaging old ones. _Enter_ FIDELIA. But here comes another, will say as much at least.--Dost thou not love me devilishly too, my little volunteer, as well as he or any man can? _Fid._ Better than any man can love you, my dear captain. _Man._ Look you there, I told you so. _Fid._ As well as you do truth or honour, sir; as well. _Man._ Nay, good young gentleman, enough, for shame! Thou hast been a page, by thy flattering and lying, to one of those praying ladies who love flattery so well they are jealous of it; and wert turned away for saying the same things to the old housekeeper for sweetmeats, as you did to your lady; for thou flatterest everything and everybody alike. _Fid._ You, dear sir, should not suspect the truth of what I say of you, though to you. Fame, the old liar, is believed when she speaks wonders of you: you cannot be flattered, sir, your merit is unspeakable. _Man._ Hold, hold, sir, or I shall suspect worse of you, that you have been a cushion-bearer to some state-hypocrite, and turned away by the chaplains, for out-flattering their probation-sermons for a benefice. _Fid._ Suspect me for anything, sir, but the want of love, faith, and duty to you, the bravest, worthiest of mankind; believe me, I could die for you, sir. _Man._ Nay, there you lie, sir; did not I see thee more afraid in the fight than the chaplain of the ship, or the purser that bought his place? _Fid._ Can he be said to be afraid, that ventures to sea with you? _Man._ Fy! fy! no more; I shall hate thy flattery worse than thy cowardice, nay, than thy bragging. _Fid._ Well, I own then I was afraid, mightily afraid; yet for you I would be afraid again, a hundred times afraid. Dying is ceasing to be afraid, and that I could do sure for you, and you'll believe me one day. [_Weeps._ _Free._ Poor youth! believe his eyes, if not his tongue: he seems to speak truth with them. _Man._ What, does he cry? A pox on't! a maudlin flatterer is as nauseously troublesome as a maudlin drunkard.--No more, you little milksop, do not cry, I'll never make thee afraid again; for of all men, if I had occasion, thou shouldst not be my second; and when I go to sea again, thou shalt venture thy life no more with me.