Leon. As you shall, so I'll promise. Then your qualities,
As playing on a Gyttern, or a Jews-Trump.
Mal. A little too on the Viol.
Leon. Fear you nothing.
Then singing her asleep with curious Catches
Of your own making; for as I have heard,
You are Poetical.
Mal. Something given that way;
Yet my works seldom thrive: and the main reason
The Poets urge for't, is, because I am not
As poor as they are.
Leon. Very likely; fetch her
While I am in the vein.
Mal. 'Tis an apt time, my Lady being at her Prayers.
Leon. Let her pray on.
Nay go, and if upon my intercession
She do you not some favour, I'll disclaim her;
I'll ruminate on't the while.
Mal. A hundred Crowns is your reward.
Leon. Without 'em—nay no trifling. [Ex. Mal.
That this dull clod of ignorance should know
How to get money, yet want eyes to see
How grosly he's abus'd, and wrought upon!
When he should make his will, the Rogue's turn'd rampant,
As he had renew'd his youth; a handsome wench,
Love one a spittle-whore would run away from?
Well, Master Steward, I will plead for you
In such a method, as it shall appear
You are fit to be a property.
Enter Malfort, and Clarinda.