Dick. Ay, but he forgot to make sure of the sexton.
Brass. Are not you a great rogue?
Dick. Or I should wear worse clothes.
Brass. Hark you, I would advise you to change your life.
Dick. And turn ballad-singer.
Brass. Not so neither.
Dick. What then?
Brass. Why, if you can get this young wench, reform, and live honest.
Dick. That's the way to be starv'd.
Brass. No, she has money enough to buy you a good place, and pay me into the bargain for helping her to so good a match. You have but this throw left to save you, for you are not ignorant, youngster, that your morals begin to be pretty well known about town; have a care your noble birth and your honourable relations are not discovered too: there needs but that to have you toss'd in a blanket, for the entertainment of the first company of ladies you intrude into: and then like a dutiful son, you may dangle about with your mother, and sell paint: she's old and weak, and wants somebody to carry her goods after her. How like a dog will you look, with a pair of plod shoes, your hair crop'd up to your ears, and a band-box under your arm?