Beaumont and Fletcher's Works. Volume 9. Beaumont Francis

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      Cla. I am a mortal creature,

      Worship Heaven, and give these attributes

      To their Divinities. Methinks ye look but thin.

      Mor. Oh we are starv'd, immortal beauty.

      Lam. We are all poor starv'd knaves.

      Fran. Neither liberty nor meat, Lady.

      Mor. We were handsome men, and Gentlemen, and sweet men,

      And were once gracious in the eyes of beauties,

      But now we look like Rogues;

      Like poor starv'd rogues.

      Cla. What would ye do if ye were to die now?

      Fran. Alas, we were prepar'd. If you will hang us,

      Let's have a good meal or two to die with,

      To put's in heart.

      Mor. Or if you'll drown us,

      Let's be drunk first, that we may die merrily,

      And bless the founders.

      Cla. Ye shall not die so hastily.

      What dare ye do to deserve my favour?

      Lam. Put us to any service.

      Fran. Any bondage,

      Let's but live.

      Mar. We'll get a world of children,

      For we know ye are hainously unprovided that way;

      And ye shall beat us when we offend ye;

      Beat us abundantly, and take our meat from us.

      Cla. These are weak abject things, that shew ye poor ones.

      What's the great service ye so oft have threatned,

      If ye might see me, and win my favour?

      Jul. That business of discovery.

      Mor. Oh, I'll tell ye Lady.

      Lam. And so will I.

      Fran. And I,

      Pray let me speak first.

      Mor. Good, no confusion.

      We are before a Lady that knows manners;

      And by the next meat I shall eat, 'tis certain,

      This little Gentlewoman that was taken with us.

      Cla. Your Captains Sister, she you mean.

      Mor. I, I, she's the business that we would open to ye.

      You are cousened in her.

      Lam. { How, what is't you would open?

      Fran. { She is no Sister.

      Mor. Good Sirs how quick you are.

      She is no Sister, Madam.

      Fran. She is his.

      Mor. Peace I say.

      Cla. What is she?

      Mor. Faith, sweet Lady,

      She is, as a man would say, his.

      Cla. What?

      Lam. His Mistriss.

      Mor. Or, as some new Translators read, his.

      Cla. Oh me!

      Mor. And why he should delude you thus,

      Unless he meant some villany? these ten weeks

      He has had her at Sea, for his own proper appetite.

      Lam. His Cabin-mate I'll assure ye.

      Cla. No Sister, say ye?

      Mor. No more than I am brother to your beauty.

      I know not why he should juggle thus.

      Cla. Do not lie to me.

      Mor. If ye find me lie, Lady, hang me empty.

      Cla. How am I fool'd!

      Away with 'em Juletta, and feed 'em

      But hark ye, with such food as they have given me.

      New misery!

      Fran. Nor meat nor thanks for all this.