Phil. My honest friends, I am sorry for your fortunes,
But that's but poor relief: here are ten Duckets,
And to your distribution, holy Sir,
I render 'em: and let it be your care
To see 'em, as your wants are, well divided.
Host. Plain dealing now my friends: and Father Fryer,
Set me the Sadle right; no wringing Fryer,
Nor tithing to the Church, these are no duties;
Scour me your conscience, if the Devil tempt ye
Off with [y]our cord, and swinge him.
Fry. Ye say well Sir.
All. Heaven keep your goodness.
Theo. Peace keep you, farewel friends.
Host. Farewel light-Horse-men. [Ex. the rob'd.
Phil. Which way travel you Sir.
Bayl. To the next Town.
Theo. Do you want any thing.
Bayl. Only discretion to travel at good hours,
And some warm meat to moderate this matter,
For I am most outragious cruel hungry.