Clerk. —And that your Honours would be pleas’d to confer an Annual Pension on him—
Lam. Reason, I think; what say you, my Lords, of five hundred Pound a Year?
All. Agreed, agreed.
War. The Diel swallow me, my Lord, ya won my Heart.
Due. ’Tis very well—but out of what shall this be rais’d?
Lam. We’ll look what [Malignants’ Estates] are forfeit, undispos’d of—let me see—who has young Freeman’s Estate?
Des. My Lord, that fell to me.
Lam. What all the fifteen hundred Pound a Year?
Des. A Dad, and all little enough.
Free. The Devil do him good with it.