SCRIVENER

Faith never worse, Merchant's are wary, Tradesmen provident, Artificers turned frugal, and I think All the World will prove good husbands. Th'have been so bit already With taking up Commodities of brown paper, Buttons passed fashion, silks, and Satins, Babies, and Children's Fiddles, with Like trash Took up at a deer rate, and sold for trifles That now scarce one will bite. Faith sir Heaven knows, We Scriveners fare the worse by't. Yes, sir, I have one Spung that could you squeeze him, Would yield good substance. Is he well possessed? Yes sir, he hath in Acres glebe and meadow, Upland, and Dale, in woods and arable; And though in name a private Gentleman, Yet hath he three fair Lordship's, beside Sheep-walks, Parks, and other large Demesnes. I have dealt closely with a man of his To undermine him, one that sooths him up In all his riots, quarrels with his thrifty, Leads him to Game and guzzle in Vaulting houses, And places of bade fame. He's one to whom he trusts his whole Estate, And can do all things with him: In these Lands I promised him, if when they were in sail That I might bring his Chapman; a round sum, To which he seemed to listen. That's the man. Is it done? As fast as wax and witness can make good. Yes, and as great and use as ever you lent out money on. Redeem this did you say? tush, had he more, More he would soon send after; why he's all expense and riot. He spends all. He minds nor cares for nothing. Troth he's sinking, he's up to the neck already. Alas poor sheep, each Bramble shares his wool. Till he be fleeced quite. O these Dice, Drabs, and Drink? What will you do, sir? I am your Scrivener, and sir, I hope You'll not forget my pains? But sir, my money. I, but my Brokage? Yet let me have my endue. At your own charge? A Gallon sir, betwixt us two? Sir, I shall. Exeunt. Lord of this Soil; which I will never repurchase After his so base sullying. It is. Upon my— Upon my Ears it's true. Quindecem Michaelis, certainly the same. If you have the conscience to take the forfeit. You looked not in the Almanac For good and evil days. And pray what was the Motto. Alas poor man, all to no purpose, be better advised, Or it may be, kept out of his clutches; these, if we may Believe th'Astronomer, are ominous days. What then? Nihil in Bag? a scurvy critical Emblem, Presaging empty pockets, Why no Cutpurse Will trade when that's in power; then why would you Lend money in that unlucky hour? What's he that looks so ghastly? My Pen and Inkhorn bless me.