Wellborn—No liquor! nor no credit!
Tapwell—None Sir. Your dead father,
My quondam master, was a man of worship,
But he dying,
And the twelve hundred a-year coming to you,
Late Mr. Francis, now forlorn Wellborn,
You had a merry time of ’t; hawks and hounds,
With choice of running horses, mistresses,
And other such extravagances.
Your lands gone, and your credit not worth a token,