_Yo. Lo_. Thanks to my dear incloser Master _Morecraft_, prethee old Angel
gold, salute my family, I'le do as much for yours; this, and your own
desires, fair Gentlewoman.
_Wid_. And yours Sir, if you mean well; 'tis a hansome Gentleman.
_Young Lo_. Sirrah, my Brother's dead.
_More_. Dead?
_Yo. Lo_. Dead, and by this time soust for Ember Week.
_Morecraft_. Dead?
_Young Lo_. Drown'd, drown'd at sea man, by the next fresh Conger that
comes we shall hear more.
_Mor._ Now by my faith of my body it moves me much.
_Yo. Lo._ What, wilt thou be an Ass, and weep for the dead? why I thought
nothing but a general inundation would have mov'd thee, prethe be quiet,
he hath left his land behind him.
_Morecraft._ O has he so?
_Young Lo._ Yes faith, I thank him for't, I have all boy, hast any ready
mony?
_Morecraft._ Will you sell Sir?
_Young Lo._ No not out right good Gripe; marry, a morgage or such a slight
securitie.
_More._ I have no mony, Sir, for Morgage; if you will sell, and all or
none, I'le work a new Mine for you.
_Sav._ Good Sir look before you, he'l work you out of all else: if you
sell all your Land, you have sold your Country, and then you must to Sea,
to seek your Brother, and there lye pickled in a Powdering tub, and break
your teeth with Biskets and hard Beef, that must have watering Sir: and
where's your 300 pounds a year in drink then? If you'l tun up the
Straights you may, for you have no calling for drink there, but with a
Canon, nor no scoring but on your Ships sides, and then if you scape with
life, and take a Faggot boat and a bottle of _Usquebaugh_, come home poor
men, like a tipe of Thames-street stinking of Pitch and Poor-John.
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