Jack. Miscall us not for our money, good mine host; we are none of your thrifts. We have 'scaped that scandal long ago.
Dick. Yes, his thrifts we are, Jack, though not our own.
Host. Tush, you are young men; 'tis too soon to thrive yet. He that gathers young, spends when he's old. 'Tis better to begin ill and end well, than to begin well and end ill. Miserable fathers have, for the most part, unthrifty sons. Leave not too much for your heirs, boys.
Jack. He says well, i' faith: why should a man trust to executors?
Steph. As good trust to hangmen as to executors. Who's in the bowling-alley, mine host?
Host. Honest traders, thrifty lads, they are rubbing on't; towardly boys, every one strives to lie nearest the mistress.[62]
Steph. Give's a bale of dice.[63]
Host. Here, my brave wags.
Steph. We fear no counters now, mine host, so long as we have your bale so ready.[64] Come, trip.
Jack. Up with's heels.