Light. Who calls me cousin? where's my cousin Haddit? he's surely putting on some rich apparel for me to see him in. I ha' been thinking all the way I came up, how much his company will credit me.
Had. My name is Haddit, sir, and your kinsman, if parents may be trusted; and therefore you may please to know me better when you see me next.
Light. I prythee, fellow, stay: is it possible thou shouldst be he? why, he was the generous spark of men's admiration.
Had. I am that spark, sir, though now raked up in ashes;
Yet when it pleaseth fortune's chaps to blow
Some gentler gale upon me, I may then
From forth of embers rise and shine again.
Light. O, by your versifying I know you now, sir: how dost? I knew thee not at first, thou'rt very much altered.
Had. Faith, and so I am, exceeding much since you saw me last—about £800 a year; but let it pass, for passage[366] carried away the most part of it: a plague of fortune.
Light. Thou'st more need to pray to Fortune than curse her: she may be kind to thee when thou art penitent: but that, I fear, will be never.
Had. O, no, if she be a woman, she'll ever love those that hate her. But, cousin, thou art thy father's first-born; help me but to some means, and I'll redeem my mortgag'd lands, with a wench to boot.
Light. As how, I pray thee?