Purse. What this tongue doth report, these eyes have seen;
It is no Æsop's fable that I tell;
But it is true, as I am faithful pander.
Sweat. Nay, I did ever think the prodigal would prove
A bankrupt: but, hang him, let him rot
In prison; he comes no more within these doors,
I warrant him.
Tickle. Come hither! I would he would but offer it;
We'll fire him out, with a pox to him.
Spend. Will you do it?
To carry me to prison but undoes me.
1st Ser. What say you, fellow Gripe, shall we take his forty shillings?
2d Ser. Yes, faith; we shall have him again within this week.
[Aside.
1st Ser. Well, sir, your forty shillings; and we'll have some compassion on you.
Spend. Will you but walk with me unto that house,
And there you shall receive it.
Ser. What, where the women are?
Spend. Yes, sir.
[They walk together to the house.