Mere-craft, Guilt-head, Fitz-dottrel, Plutarchus.
O, Is he come! I knew he would not fail me.
Welcome, good Guilt-head, I must ha' you do
A noble Gentleman a courtesie, here,
In a meer toy (some pretty Ring, or Jewel)
Of fifty, or threescore Pound. (Make it a hundred,
And hedge in the last forty, that I owe you,
And your own price for the Ring.) He's a good Man, Sir,
And you may hap' see him a great one! He,
Is likely to bestow hundreds, and thousands,
Wi' you; if you can humour him. A great Prince
He will be shortly. VVhat do you say?
Gui.
In truth, Sir,
I cannot. 'T has been a long vacation with us.
Fit.
Of what, I pray thee? of Wit? or Honesty?
Those are your Citizens long vacations.
Plu.
Good Father do not trust 'em.
Mer.
Nay, Thom. Guilt-head,
He will not buy a courtesie and beg it:
He'll rather pay than pray. If you do for him,
You must do cheerfully. His credit, Sir,
Is not yet prostitute! VVho's this? thy Son?
A pretty Youth, what's his name?
Plu.
Plutarchus, Sir.
Mer.
Plutarchus! How came that about?
Gui.
That Year, Sir,
That I begot him, I bought Plutarch's Lives,
And fell s' in love with the Book, as I call'd my Son
By 'his name, in hope he should be like him:
And write the Lives of our great Men!
Mer.
i' the City?
And you do breed him, there?
Gui.
His mind, Sir, lies
Much to that way.
Mer.
VVhy, then he is i' the right way.
Gui.
But, now, I had rather get him a good VVife,
And plant him i' the Country; there to use
The blessing I shall leave him.
Mer.
Out upon't!
And lose the laudable means, thou hast at home, here,
T' advance, and make him a young Alderman?
Buy him a Captains place, for shame; and let him
Into the World early, and with his Plume,
And Scarfs, march through Cheapside, or along Cornhill;
And by the vertue' of those, draw down a VVife
There from a Windo', worth ten thousand Pound!
Get him the posture Book, and's Leaden Men,
To set upon a Table, 'gainst his Mistris
Chance to come by, that he may draw her in,
And shew her Finsbnry Battels.
Gui.
I have plac'd him
With Justice Eitherside, to get so much Law. —
Mer.
As thou hast Conscience. Come, come, thou
dost wrong
Pretty Plutarchus, who had not his name,
For nothing: but was born to train the Youth
Of London in the Military truth ———
That way his Genius lies. My Cousin Everill!