Leave that to me, your patience, I have some toyes here that I dare well trust to: I have smelt a Vicar out, they call him _Lopez_.
You are ne're the nearer now.
_Mil_.
We do confess it.
_Lea_.
Weak simple men, this Vicar to this Lawyer Is the most inward _Damon_.
_Ars_.
What can this do?
_Mil_.
We know the fellow, and he dwells there.
_Lean_. So.
_Ars_.
A poor, thin thief: he help? he? hang the Vicar, Can reading of an ---- prefer thee?
Thou art dead-sick in love, and hee'l pray for thee.
_Lean_.
Have patience (Gentlemen) I say this Vicar, This thing I say is all one with the Close _Bartolus_ (For so they call the Lawyer) or his nature Which I have studied by relation: And make no doubt I shall hit handsomly, Will I work cunningly, and home: understand me.
_Enter_ Lopez, _and_ Diego.
Next I pray leave me, leave me to my fortune _Difficilia pulchra_, that's my Motto (Gentlemen) I'le win this Diamond from the rock and wear her, Or--
_Mil_.
Peace, the Vicar: send ye a full sail, Sir.
_Ars_.
There's your Confessor, but what shall be your penance?
_Lean_.
A fools head if I fail, and so forsake me.
You shall hear from me daily.
_Mil_.
We will be ready.
[_Exeunt _Mil. Ars.
_Lop_.
Thin world indeed!
_Lean_.
I'le let him breath and mark him: No man would think a stranger as I am Should reap any great commodity from his pigbelly.
_Lop_.
Poor stirring for poor Vicars.
_Diego_. And poor Sextons.
_Lop_.
We pray and pray, but to no purpose, Those that enjoy our lands, choak our Devotions.
Our poor thin stipends make us arrant dunces.
_Diego_.
If you live miserably, how shall we do (Master) That are fed only with the sound of prayers?
We rise and ring the Bells to get good stomachs, And must be fain to eat the ropes with reverence.
_Lop_.
When was there a Christning, _Diego_?
_Diego_.
Not this ten weeks: Alas, they have forgot to get children (Master) The Wars, the Seas, and usurie undoe us, Takes off our minds, our edges, blunts our plough-shares.
They eat nothing here, but herbs, and get nothing but green sauce: There are some poor Labourers, that perhaps Once in seven year, with helping one another, Produce some few pin'd-Butter-prints, that scarce hold The christning neither.
_Lop_.
Your Gallants, they get Honour, A strange fantastical Birth, to defraud the Vicar, And the Camp Christens their Issues, or the Curtizans, 'Tis a lewd time.
_Die_.
They are so hard-hearted here too, They will not dye, there's nothing got by Burials.
_Lop_.
_Diego_, the Air's too pure, they cannot perish.
To have a thin Stipend, and an everlasting Parish, Lord what a torment 'tis!
_Die_.