Tim. Yes, he was there
As constant as Duke Humphrey.[235] I can show
The prints where he sat holes i' th' logs.
Plot. He wore
More pavement out with walking than would make
A row of new stone-saints, and yet refused
To give to th' reparation.[236]
Bright. I've heard
He'd make his jack go empty to cosen neighbours.
Plot. Yes, when there was not fire enough to warm
A mastich-patch t' apply to his wife's temples,
In great extremity of toothache. This is
True, Master Timothy, is't not?
Tim. Yes: then linen
To us was stranger than to Capuchins.
My flesh is of an order with wearing shirts
Made of the sacks that brought o'er cochineal,
Copperas, and indigo. My sister wears
Smocks made of currant-bags.
Sea. I'll not endure it:
Let's show ourselves. [Aside.
Ware. Stay: hear all first. [Aside.
New. Thy uncle was such another.
Plot. I have heard
He still last left th' Exchange; and would commend
The wholesomeness o' th' air in Moorfields, when
The clock struck three sometimes.
Plot. Surely myself,
Cypher, his factor, and an ancient cat
Did keep strict diet, had our Spanish fare,
Four olives among three. My uncle would
Look fat with fasting; I ha' known him surfeit
Upon a bunch of raisins, swoon at sight
Of a whole joint, and rise an epicure
From half an orange. [They undisguise.