PYE. Puh, that’s but the babe of a man, and may easily be husht; as to think upon some disaster, some sad misfortune, as the death of thy Father ithe Country!
CAPTAIN. Sfoot, that would be the more to drive me into such an extasy, that I should ne’er lin laughing.
PYE.
Why, then, think upon going to hanging else.
CAPTAIN. Mass, that’s well remembred; now I’ll do well, I warrant thee, ne’er fear me now: but how shall I do, George, for boisterous words, and horrible names?
PYE.
Puh, any fustian invocations, Captain, will serve as well
as the best, so you rant them out well; or you may go to a
Pothecaries shop, and take all the words from the Boxes.
CAPTAIN. Troth, and you say true, George; there’s strange words enow to raise a hundred Quack-salvers, tho they be ne’er so poor when they begin. But here lies the fear on’t, how if in this false conjuration, a true Devil should pop up indeed?
PYE. A true Devil, Captain? why there was ne’er such a one: nay, faith, he that has this place is as false a Knave as our last Church-warden.
CAPTAIN.
Then he’s false enough a conscience, ifaith, George.
[The Crie at Marshalsea.]
CRIE PRISONERS.
Good Gentlemen over the way, send your relief. Good
Gentlemen over the way,—Good sir Godfrey!