Bear. Pray, Sir, use mine, it is a travell’d Blade I can assure you, Sir.
Sir Feeb. I thank you, Sir.
Enter Ralph and Bellmour disguised, gives him a Letter, he reads.
How—my Nephew! Francis Fainwou’d! [Embraces him.
Bel. I am glad he has told me my Christian name.
Sir Feeb. Sir Cautious, know my Nephew—’tis a young St. Omers
Scholar—but none of the Witnesses.
Sir Cau. Marry, Sir, and the wiser he; for they got nothing by’t.
Bea. Sir, I love and honour you, because you are a Traveller.
Sir Feeb. A very proper young Fellow, and as like old Frank Fainwou’d as the Devil to the Collier; but, Francis, you are come into a very leud Town, Francis, for Whoring, and Plotting, and Roaring, and Drinking; but you must go to Church, Francis, and avoid ill Company, or you may make damnable Havock in my Cash, Francis, —what, you can keep Merchants Books?
Bel. That’s been my study, Sir.