Val. Taunt my integrity you Whelps?
Bell. You may talk the stock we gave you out, but see no further.
Hair. You tempt our patience, we have found you out, and what your trust comes to, ye're well feathered, thank us, and think now of an honest course, 'tis time; men now begin to look, and narrowly into your tumbling tricks, they are stale.
Wid. Is not that he?
Luce. 'Tis he.
Wid. Be still and mark him.
Val. How miserable will these poor wretches be when I forsake 'em! but things have their necessities, I am sorry, to what a vomit must they turn again, now to their own dear Dunghil breeding; never hope after I cast you off, you men of Motley, you most undone things below pity, any that has a soul and six-pence dares relieve you, my name shall bar that blessing, there's your Cloak, Sir, keep it close to you, it may yet preserve you a fortnight longer from the fool; your Hat, pray be covered, and there's the Sattin that your Worship sent me, will serve you at a Sizes yet.
Fount. Nay, faith Sir, you may e'ne rub these out now.
Val. No such relique, nor the least rag of such a sordid weakness shall keep me warm, these Breeches are mine own, purchased, and paid for, without your compassion, a Christian Breeches founded in Black-Friers, and so I'le maintain 'em.
Hare. So they seem, Sir.