Boy. Marry, God bless us! I mean, sir, there's the difficulty.
Lov. Damned rogue, to put me in hope so—
Enter BIBBER at the other end.
Lov. Uds so, look where Bibber is: Now I think on't, he offered me a bag of forty pounds, and the lease of his house yesterday: But that's his pocky humour; when I have money, and do not ask him, he will offer it; but when I ask him, he will not lend a farthing.—Turn this way, sirrah, and make as though we did not see him.
Bib. Our gentleman, I think, a-talking with his boy there.
Lov. You understand me?—
Boy. I warrant you, sir.
Lov. No news yet; what an unlucky rascal 'tis! if the rogue should hereafter be reduced to the raiment of his own shreds, I should not pity him.
Bib. How's this!
Lov. Now is this rascal hunting after jests, to make himself the greatest to all that know him.