Bib. Ha, ha, boy.
Fail. This porter brings sad news to you, Will; you must trust him for a suit of clothes, as bad as 'tis: Come, he's an honest fellow, and loves the king.
Bib. Why, it shall be my suit to him, that I may trust him.
Burr. I grant your suit, sir.
Fail. Burr, make haste and dress you; Sir Timorous dines here to-day: you know him?
Burr. Aye, aye, a good honest young fellow; but no conjurer; he and I are very kind.
Fail. Egad, we two have a constant revenue out of him: He would now be admitted suitor to my Lady Constance Nonsuch, my Lord Nonsuch's daughter; our neighbour here in Fleetstreet.
Burr. Is the match in any forwardness?
Fail. He never saw her before yesterday, and will not be brought to speak to her this month yet.
Burr. That's strange.