Bout. Th' art welcome, boy.
How does the fair Constantia Sommerfield,
Thy[323] noble mistress?
Con. I left her in health.
Bout. She gives thee here good words; and for her sake
Thou shalt not want a master: be mine for ever.
Con. I thank you, sir. Now shall I see the punk.
[He knocks.
Enter William Small-Shanks.
W. Small. Who knocks so fast? I thought 'twas you; what news?
Bout. You know my business well; I sing one song.
W. Small. 'Sfoot, what would you have me do? my land is gone,
My credit of less trust than courtiers' words
To men of judgment; and for my debts
I might deserve a knighthood:[324] what's to be done?
The knight my father will not once vouchsafe
To call me son: that little land he gave,
Throat the lawyer swallowed at one gob
For less than half the worth; and for the city
There be so many rascals and tall yeomen,
Would hang upon me for their maintenance,
Should I but peep or step within the gates,
That I am forc'd, only to ease my charge,
To live here in the suburbs; or in the town
To walk in tenebris. I tell you, sir,
Your best retired life is an honest punk
In a thatch'd house with garlic: tell not me:
My punk's my punk, and noble lechery
Sticks by a man when all his friends forsake him.
Bout. The pox, it will: art thou so senseless grown,
So much endeared to thy bestial lust,
That thy original worth should lie extinct
And buried in thy shame? Far be such thoughts
From spirits free and noble! Begin to live:
Know thyself, and whence thou art deriv'd.
I know that competent state thy father gave
Cannot be yet consum'd.