Fail. Do you not know Will Bibber's humour?
Burr. Pr'ythee, what have I to do with his humour?
Fail. Break but a jest, and he'll beg to trust thee for a suit; nay, he will contribute to his own destruction, and give thee occasions to make one. He has been my artificer these three years; and, all the while, I have lived upon his favourable apprehension. Boy, conduct him up. [Exit Boy.
Burr. But what am I the better for this? I ne'er made jest in all my life.
Fail. A bare clinch will serve the turn; a car-wichet, a quarter-quibble, or a pun.
Burr. Wit from a Low Country soldier! One, that has conversed with none but dull Dutchmen these ten years! What an unreasonable rogue art thou? why, I tell thee, 'tis as difficult to me, as to pay him ready money.
Fail. Come, you shall be ruled for your own good; I'll throw the clothes over you to help meditation. And, upon the first opportunity, start you up, and surprise him with a jest.
Burr. Well, I think this impossible to be done: but, however, I'll attempt. [Lies down, FAILER covers him.
Fail. Husht! he's coming up.
Enter BIBBER.