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ROBERT, EARL OF CARNARVON

Master Falconer of England.

MY GOOD LORD,

Pardon, I beseech you, my boldness, in presuming to shelter this Comedy under the wings of your lordship's favour and protection. I am not ignorant (having never yet deserved you in my service) that it cannot but meet with a severe construction, if, in the clemency of your noble disposition, you fashion not a better defence for me, than I can fancy for myself. All I can allege is, that divers Italian princes, and lords of eminent rank in England, have not disdained to receive and read poems of this nature; nor am I wholly lost in my hopes, but that your honour (who have ever expressed yourself a favourer, and friend to the Muses) may vouchsafe, in your gracious acceptance of this trifle, to give me encouragement to present you with some laboured work, and of a higher strain, hereafter. I was born a devoted servant to the thrice noble family of your incomparable lady, and am most ambitious, but with a becoming distance, to be known to your lordship, which, if you please to admit, I shall embrace it as a bounty, that while I live shall oblige me to acknowledge you for my noble patron, and profess myself to be,

Your honour's true servant,

PHILIP MASSINGER.

LORD LOVELL

DRAMATIS PERSONE

SIR GILES OVERREACH, a cruel extortioner

FRANK WELLBORN, a Prodigal

TOM ALLWORTH, a young Gentleman, Page to Lord Lovell GREEDY, a hungry Justice of Peace

MARRALL, a Term-Driver; a creature of Sir Giles Overreach

ORDER, Steward

AMBLE, Usher

FURNACE, Cook

WATCHALL, Porter

WILLDO, a Parson

to Lady Allworth

TAPWELL, an Alehouse Keeper

Creditors, Servants, &c.

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A NEW WAY TO PAY CLI DERT

ACT I

SCENE 1

Before Tapwell's Hous

Enter Wellborn in tattered appare., Zapat

Well. No bouse? nor no tobacco:

Tap. Not a suck, sir;

Nor the remainder of a single can

Left by a drunken porter, all night palled Froth. Not the dropping of the tap for draught, sir:

"Tis verity, I assure you.

Well. Verity, you brache!

The devil turned precisian Ro

Tap. Troth, durst I trust you witha

[graphic]

Your Plymouth cloak you shall be soon instructed
There dwells, and within call, if it please your wor-

ship,

A potent monarch called the constable,

That does command a citadel called the stocks

Whose guards are certain files of rusty billmen
Such as with great dexterity will hale

Your tattered, lousy—

Well. Rascal! slave !

Froth. No rage, sir.

Tap. At his own peril: Do not put yourself

;

20

In too much heat, there being no water near To quench your thirst; and sure, for other liquor, As mighty ale, or beer, they are things, I take it, You must no more remember; not in a dream, sir. Well. Why, thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou talk thus ! Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift? Tap. I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tapwell

Does keep no other register.

Well. Am not I he

Whose riots fed and clothed thee? wert thou not
Born on my father's land, and proud to be

A drudge in his house?

Tap. What I was, sir, it skills not;

What you are, is apparent now, for a farewell,

30

Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment

you,

I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father, 40

My quondam master, was a man of worship,

Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace and quorum,
And stood fair to be custos rotulorum;

Bore the whole sway of the shire, kept a great house,
Relieved the poor, and so forth; but he dying,
And the twelve hundred a year coming to you,
Late Master Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn-
Well. Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.
Froth. Very hardly;

You cannot out of your way.

Tap. But to my story:

You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant,
And I your under-butler; note the change now;
You had a merry time of't; hawks and hounds,
With choice of running horses; mistresses
Of all sorts and all sizes, yet so hot,

As their embraces made your lordship melt;
Which your uncle, Sir Giles Overreach, observing,
(Resolving not to lose a drop of them,)

On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds,

50

60

For a while supplied your looseness, and then left

you.

Well. Some curate hath penned this invective, mongrel, And you have studied it.

Tap. I have not done yet :

Your land gone, and your credit not worth a token,
You grew a common borrower; no man 'scaped
Your paper-pellets, from the gentleman

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