Duc. I scorn to let a Dog go unrewarded; and you, Sir, fawn so prettily, ’tis pity you shou’d miss Preferment.
Hews. And so ’tis; come, come, my Lords, consider he was ever our Friend, and ’tis but reasonable we shou’d stitch up one another’s broken Fortunes.
Duc. Nay, Sir, I’m not against it.
All. ’Tis Reason, ’tis Reason.
Free. Damn ’em, how they lavish out the Nation!
War. Scribe, pretha read my Paper.
Hews. Have you a Pertition there?
Cob. A Petition, my Lord.
Hews. Pshaw, you Scholards are so troublesome.
Lam. Read the Substance of it. [To the Clerk.