_And_. Pray you know your Cue, and second me, Sir. By your Worship's
favour.
_Bri_. _Andrew_!
_And_. I come in time to take possession of th'Office you assign me; hold
the door! alas, 'tis nothing for a simple man to stay without, when a deep
understanding holds conference within, say with his Wife: a trifle, Sir. I
know I hold my Farm by Cuckolds Tenure; you are Lord o'th' Soil, Sir.
_Lilly_ is a Weft, a stray, she's yours to use, Sir, I claim no interest
in her.
_Bri_. Art thou serious? speak, honest _Andrew_, since thou hast o'erheard
us, and wink at small faults, man; I'm but a pidlar, a little will serve
my turn; thou'lt find enough when I've my belly full: Wilt thou be private
and silent?
_And_. By all means, I'll only have a Ballad made of't, sung to some lewd
Tune, and the name of it shall be _Justice Trap_; it will sell rarely with
your Worships name, and _Lilly_'s on the top.
_Bri_. Seek not the ruine o' my reputation, _Andrew_.
_And_. 'Tis for your credit, Monsieur _Brisac_, printed in Capital
Letters, then pasted upon all the posts in _Paris_.
_Bri_. No mercy, _Andrew_?
_And_. O, it will proclaim you from the City to the Court, and prove Sport
Royal.
_Bri_. Thou shalt keep thy Farm.
_Mir_. He does afflict him rarely.
_And_. You trouble me. Then his intent arriving, the vizard of his
hypocrisie pull'd of[f] to the Judge criminal.
_Bri_. O I am undone.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74