I assure ye, a close Fellow, Both close, and scraping, and that fills the Bags, Sir.
_Bar_.
A notable good fellow too?
_Lop_.
Sometimes, Sir, When he hop'd to drink a man into a Surfeit, That he might gain by his Grave.
_Bar_.
So many thousands?
_Lop_.
Heaven knows what.
_Bar.
'Tis strange, 'Tis very strange; but we see by endeavour, And honest labour--
_Lop_.
_Milo_, by continuance Grew from a silly Calf (with your worships reverence) To carry a Bull, from a penny, to a pound, Sir, And from a pound, to many: 'tis the progress.
_Bar_.
Ye say true, but he lov'd to feed well also, And that me-thinks--
_Lop_.
From another mans Trencher, Sir, And there he found it season'd with small charge: There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye More than the Graves he made; at home he liv'd Like a Camelion, suckt th' Air of misery,
[_Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools_.
And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell, Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit.
And be a month in fasting out that Fever.
_Bar_.
These are good Symptoms: do's he lye so sick say ye?
_Lop_.
Oh, very sick.
_Bar_.
And chosen me Executor?
_Lop_.
Only your Worship.
_Bar_.
No hope of his amendment?
_Lop_.
None, that we find.
_Bar_.
He hath no Kinsmen neither?
_Lop_.
'Truth, very few,
_Bar_.
His mind will be the quieter.
What Doctors has he?
_Lop_.
There's none, Sir, he believes in.
_Bar_.
They are but needless things, in such extremities.
Who draws the good mans Will?
_Lop_.
Marry that do I, Sir, And to my grief.
_Bar_.
Grief will do little now, Sir, Draw it to your comfort, Friend, and as I counsel ye, An honest man, but such men live not always: Who are about him?
_Lop_.
Many, now he is passing, That would pretend to his love, yes, and some Gentlemen That would fain counsel him, and be of his Kindred; Rich men can want no Heirs, Sir.
_Bar_.