[Exeunt.
ACT III.
An Inn.
Enter ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY.
WEN. He's our own, he's our own! Come, let's make use of his wealth, as the sun of ice: melt it, melt it.
ILF. But art sure he will hold his meeting?
WEN. As sure as I am now, and was dead drunk last night.
ILF. Why then so sure will I be arrested by a couple of serjeants, and fall into one of the unlucky cranks about Cheapside, called Counters.
BAR. Withal, I have provided Master Gripe the usurer, who upon the instant will be ready to step in, charge the serjeants to keep thee fast, and that now he will have his five hundred pounds, or thou shalt rot for it.
WEN. When it follows, young Scarborow shall be bound for the one; then take up as much more. We share the one-half, and help him to be drunk with the other.