Peni-boy sen. Broker, Cymbal.
He is started with Broker's coming back.

How now? I think I was born under Hercules Star!
Nothing but trouble and tumult to oppress me?
Why come you back? where is your charge?

Bro.
I ha' brought
A gentleman to speak with you.

P. sen.
To speak with me?
You know 'tis death for me to speak with any Man.
What is he? set me a Chair.

Bro.
He's the Master
Of the great Office.

P. sen.
What?

Bro.
The Staple of News,
A mighty thing, they talk Six thousand a year.

P. sen.
Well, bring your six in. Where ha' you left
Pecunia?

Bro.
Sir, in Apollo, they are scarce set.

P. sen.
Bring six.

Bro.
Here is the Gentleman.

P. sen.
He must pardon me,
I cannot rise, a diseas'd Man.

Cym.
By no means, Sir,
Respect your Health and Ease.

P. sen.
It is no pride in me!
But pain, pain; what's your Errand, Sir, to me?
Broker, return to your Charge, be Argus-eyed,

[He sends Broker back.

Awake, to the affair you have in hand,
Serve in Apollo, but take heed of Bacchus.
Go on, Sir.

Cym.
I am come to speak with you.

P. sen.
'Tis pain for me to speak, a very death,
But I will hear you!

Cym.
Sir, you have a Lady,
That sojourns with you.

P. sen.
Ha? I am somewhat short

[He pretends infirmity.

In my sense too —

Cym.
Pecunia.

P. sen.
O'that side,
Very imperfect, on —

Cym.
Whom I would draw
Oftner to a poor Office, I am Master of —

P. sen.
My Hearing is very dead, you must speak quicker.

Cym.
Or, if it please you, Sir, to let her sojourn
In part with me; I have a moiety,
We will divide, half of the profits. P. sen. Ha?
I hear you better now, how come they in?
Is it a certain business, or a casual?
For I am loth to seek out doubtful courses,
Run any hazardous Paths, I love strait Ways,
A just and upright Man! now all Trade totters.
The Trade of Mony is fal'n two i' the Hundred.
That was a certain Trade, while th' Age was thrifty,
And Men good Husbands, look'd unto their Stocks,
Had their Minds bounded; now the publick Riot
Prostitutes all, scatters away in Coaches,

In foot-mens Coats, and waiting Womens Gowns,
They must have Velvet Hanches (with a Pox)
Now taken up, and yet not pay the Use;
Bate of the Use? I am mad with this times manners.

[He talks vehemently and aloud.

Cym.
You said e'en now, it was death for you to speak.

P. sen.
I, but an anger, a just anger, (as this is)
Puts life in Man. Who can endure to see
The fury of Mens Gullets, and their Groins?
What Fires, what Cooks, what Kitchens might be spar'd?

[Is mov'd more and more.

What Stews, Ponds, Parks, Coups, Garners, Magazines?
What Velvets, Tissues, Scarfs, Embroyderies,
And Laces they might lack? They covet things —
Superfluous still; when it were much more honour
They could want necessary! What need hath Nature
Of Silver Dishes? or Gold Chamber-pots?
Of perfum'd Napkins? or a numerous Family,
To see her eat? Poor, and wise she, requires
Meat only; Hunger is not ambitious:
Say, that you were the Emperor of Pleasures,
The great Dictator of Fashions, for all Europe,
And had the Pomp of all the Courts, and Kingdoms,
Laid forth unto the shew? to make your self
Gaz'd, and admir'd at? You must go to Bed,
And take your natural rest: then, all this vanisheth.
Your Bravery was but shown; 'twas not possest:
While it did boast it self, it was then perishing.

Cym.
This Man has healthful Lungs.

P. sen.
All that excess
Appear'd as little yours, as the Spectators.
It scarce fills up the expectation
Of a few Hours, that entertains Mens lives.

Cym.
He has the monopoly of sole-speaking.

[He is angry.

Why, good Sir? you talk all.

P. sen.
Why should I not?
Is it not under mine own Roof? my Ceiling?

Cym.
But I came here to talk with you.

P. sen.
Why, an' I will not
Talk with you, Sir? you are answer'd; who sent for you?

[Bids him get out of his House.

Cym.
No body sent for me —

P. sen.
But you came; why then
Go as you came, here's no Man holds you; There,
There lies your way, you see the Door.

Cym.
This's strange!

P. sen.
'Tis my civility, when I do not rellish
The Party, or his business. Pray you be gone, Sir.
I'll ha' no venter in your Ship, the Office
Your Bark of Six, if 'twere sixteen, good, Sir.

[Cymbal rails at him.

Cym.
You are a Rogue.

P. sen.
I think I am Sir, truly.

Cym.
A Rascal, and a Mony-bawd.

P. sen.
My Sirnames:

Cym.
A wretched Rascal!

[He jeers him.

P. sen.
You will overflow —
And spill all.

Cym.
Caterpiller, Moath,
Horse-leach, and Dung-worm —

P. sen.
Still you lose your labour.
I am a broken Vessel, all runs out:
A shrunk old Dryfat. Fare you well, good Six.


The third Intermean after the third Act.

Censure. A notable tough Rascal¡ this old Peni-boy!
right City-bred!

Mirth.
In Silver-street, the Region of Money, a good seat
for an Usurer.

Tattle.
He has rich ingredients in him, I warrant you, if
they were extracted, a true receit to make an Alderman, an'
he were well wrought upon, according to Art.

Exp.
I would fain see an Alderman in chimia! that is
a Treatise of Aldermanity truly written.

Cen.
To shew how much it differs from Urbanity.

Mirth.
I, or Humanity. Either would appear in thisPeni-boy, an' he were rightly distill'd. But how like you the
News? you are gone from that.

Cen.
O, they are monstrous! scurvy! and stale! and too
exotick! ill cook'd! and ill dish'd!

Exp.
They were as good, yet, as Butter could make
them!

Tat.
In a word, they were beastly buttered! she shall never
come o' my Bread more, nor in my Mouth, if I can help it. I
have better News from the Bake-house, by ten thousand parts,
in a morning: or the Conduits in Westminster! all the News
of Tuttle-street, and both the Alm'ries! the two Sanctua-
ries! long and round Wool-staple! with King's-street, andCannon-row to boot!

Mirth.
I, my Gossip Tattle knew what fine slips grew inGardiners-lane; who kist the Butchers Wife with the Cows-
breath; what Matches were made in the Bowling-Alley, and
what Bets won and lost; how much Grist went to the Mill,
and what besides: who conjur'd in Tuttle-fields, and how
many? when they never came there. And which Boy rode
upon Doctor Lamb, in the likeness of a roaring Lyon,
that run away with him in his Teeth, and ha's not de-
vour'd him yet.

Tat.
Why, I had it from my maid Joan Hear-say: and
she had it from a Limb o' the School, she says, a little Limb
of nine year old; who told her, the Master left out his Con-
juring-Book one day, and he found it, and so the Fable came
about. But whether it were true, or no, we Gossips are bound
to believe it, an't be once out, and a foot: how should we en-
tertain the time else, or find our selves in fashionable discourse,
for all Companies, if we do not credit all, and make more of it,
in the reporting?

Cen.
For my part, I believe it: and there were no wiser
than I, I would have ne'er a cunning School-Master in Eng-
land. I mean a Cunning-Man, a School-Master; that is
a Conjurer, or a Poet, or that had any acquaintance with aPoet. They make all their Scholars Play-boys! Is't not a
fine sight, to see all our Children made Enterluders? Do we
pay our Money for this? we send them to learn their Gram-
mar, and their Terence, and they learn their Play-books?
well, they talk, we shall have no more Parliaments (God bless
us) but an' we have, I hope, Zeal-of-the-land Buzy, and
my Gossip, Rabby Trouble-truth will start up, and see we
shall have painful good Ministers to keep School, and Cate-
chise our youth, and not teach 'em to speak Plays, and act Fa-
bles of false News, in this manner, to the super-vexation of
Town and Country, with a Wanion.