_Widow._ Sir you speak well, would God that charity had first begun here.
_Young Lo._ 'Tis yet time. Be merrie, me thinks you want wine there,
there's more i'th' house. Captain, where rests the health?
_Captain._ It shall goe round boy.
_Young Lo._ Say you can suffer this, because the end points at much
profit, can you so far bow below your blood, below your too much beautie,
to be a partner of this fellowes bed, and lie with his diseases? if you
can, I will no[t] press you further: yet look upon him: there's nothing in
that hide-bound Usurer, that man of mat, that all decai'd, but aches, for
you to love, unless his perisht lungs, his drie cough, or his scurvie.
This is truth, and so far I dare speak yet: he has yet past cure of
Physick, spaw, or any diet, a primitive pox in his bones; and o' my
Knowledge he has been ten times rowell'd: ye may love him; he had a
bastard, his own toward issue, whipt, and then cropt for washing out the
roses, in three farthings to make 'em pence.
_Widow._ I do not like these Morals.
_Young Lo._ You must not like him then.
_Enter_ Elder Love.
_Elder Lo._ By your leave Gentlemen?
_Young Lo._ By my troth sir you are welcom, welcom faith: Lord what a
stranger you are grown; pray know this Gentlewoman, and if you please
these friends here: we are merry, you see the worst on't; your house has
been kept warm Sir.
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