_Enter_ Lopez _and_ Bartolus.
_Bar_.
Is't possible he should be rich?
_Lop_.
Most possible,
He hath been long, though he had but little gettings,
Drawing together, Sir.
_Bar_.
Accounted a poor Sexton,
Honest poor _Diego_.
_Lop_.
I assure ye, a close Fellow,
Both close, and scraping, and that fills the Bags, Sir.
_Bar_.
A notable good fellow too?
_Lop_.
Sometimes, Sir,
When he hop'd to drink a man into a Surfeit,
That he might gain by his Grave.
_Bar_.
So many thousands?
_Lop_.
Heaven knows what.
_Bar.
'Tis strange,
'Tis very strange; but we see by endeavour,
And honest labour--
_Lop_.
_Milo_, by continuance
Grew from a silly Calf (with your worships reverence)
To carry a Bull, from a penny, to a pound, Sir,
And from a pound, to many: 'tis the progress.
_Bar_.
Ye say true, but he lov'd to feed well also,
And that me-thinks--
_Lop_.
From another mans Trencher, Sir,
And there he found it season'd with small charge:
There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye
More than the Graves he made; at home he liv'd
Like a Camelion, suckt th' Air of misery,
[_Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools_.
And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell,
Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit.
And be a month in fasting out that Fever.
_Bar_.
These are good Symptoms: do's he lye so sick say ye?
_Lop_.
Oh, very sick.
_Bar_.
And chosen me Executor?
_Lop_.
Only your Worship.
_Bar_.
No hope of his amendment?
_Lop_.
None, that we find.
_Bar_.
He hath no Kinsmen neither?
_Lop_.
'Truth, very few,
_Bar_.
His mind will be the quieter.
What Doctors has he?
_Lop_.
There's none, Sir, he believes in.
_Bar_.
They are but needless things, in such extremities.
Who draws the good mans Will?
_Lop_.
Marry that do I, Sir,
And to my grief.
_Bar_.
Grief will do little now, Sir,
Draw it to your comfort, Friend, and as I counsel ye,
An honest man, but such men live not always:
Who are about him?
_Lop_.
Many, now he is passing,
That would pretend to his love, yes, and some Gentlemen
That would fain counsel him, and be of his Kindred;
Rich men can want no Heirs, Sir.
_Bar_.
They do ill,
Indeed they do, to trouble him; very ill, Sir.
But we shall take a care.
_Enter_ Diego, _in a Bed_, Milanes, Arsenio, _and_ Parishioners.
_Lop_.
Will ye come near, Sir?
'Pray ye bring him out; now ye may see in what state:
Give him fresh Air.
_Bar_.
I am sorry, Neighbour _Diego_,
To find ye in so weak a state.
_Die_.
Ye are welcome,
But I am fleeting, Sir.
_Bar_.
Me-thinks he looks well,
His colour fresh, and strong, his eyes are chearful.
_Lop_.
A glimmering before death, 'tis nothing else, Sir,
Do you see how he fumbles with the Sheet? do ye note that?
_Die_.
My learned Sir, 'pray ye sit: I am bold to send for ye,
To take a care of what I leave.
_Lop_.
Do ye hear that?
_Ars_.
Play the Knave finely.
_Die_.
So I will, I warrant ye,
And carefully.
_Bar_.
'Pray ye do not trouble him,
You see he's weak and has a wandring fancy.
_Die_.
My honest Neighbours, weep not, I must leave ye,
I cannot always bear ye company,
We must drop still, there is no remedy:
'Pray ye Master Curate, will ye write my Testament,
And write it largely it may be remembred,
And be witness to my Legacies, good Gentlemen;
Your Worship I do make my full Executor,
You are a man of wit and understanding:
Give me a cup of Wine to raise my Spirits,
For I speak low: I would before these Neighbours
Have ye to swear, Sir, that you will see it executed,
And what I give let equally be rendred
For my souls health.
_Bar_.
I vow it truly, Neighbours,
Let not that trouble ye, before all these,
Once more I give my Oath.
_Die_.
Then set me higher,
And pray ye come near me all.
_Lop_.
We are ready for ye.
_Mil_.
Now spur the Ass, and get our friend time.
_Die_.
First then,
After I have given my body to the worms,
(For they must be serv'd first, they are seldom cozen'd.)
_Lop_.
Remember your Parish, Neighbour.
_Die_.
You speak truly,
I do remember it, a lewd vile Parish,
And pray it may be mended: To the poor of it,
(Which is to all the Parish) I give nothing,
For nothing, unto nothing, is most natural,
Yet leave as much space, as will build an Hospital,
Their Children may pray for me.
_Bar_.
What do you give to it?
_Die_.
Set down two thousand Duckets.
_Bar_.
'Tis a good gift,
And will be long remembred.
_Die_.
To your worship,
(Because you must take pains to see all finish'd)
I give two thousand more, it may be three, Sir,
A poor gratuity for your pains-taking.
_Bar_.
These are large sums.
_Lop_.
Nothing to him that has 'em.
_Die_.
To my old Master Vicar, I give five hundred,
(Five hundred and five hundred are too few, Sir)
But there be more to serve.
_Bar_.
This fellow coins sure.
_Die_.
Give me some more drink. Pray ye buy Books, buy Books,
You have a learned head, stuff it with Libraries,
And understand 'em, when ye have done, 'tis Justice.
Run not the Parish mad with Controversies,
Nor preach Abstinence to longing Women,
'Twill burge the bottoms of their Consciences:
I would give the Church new Organs, but I prophesie
The Church-wardens would quickly pipe 'em out o'th' Parish,
Two hundred Duckets more to mend the Chancel,
And to paint true Orthographie, as many,
They write _Sunt_ with a _C_, which is abominable,
'Pray you set that down; to poor Maidens Marriages.
_Lop_.
I that's well thought of, what's your will in that point?
A meritorious thing.
_Bar_.
No end of this Will?
_Die_.
I give _per annum_ two hundred Ells of Lockram,
That there be no strait dealings in their Linnens,
But the Sails cut according to their Burthens.
To all Bell-ringers, I bequeath new Ropes,
And let them use 'em at their own discretions.
_Ars_.
You may remember us.
_Die_.
I do good Gentlemen,
And I bequeath you both good careful Surgions,
A Legacy, you have need of, more than mony,
I know you want good Diets, and good Lotions,
And in your pleasures, good take heed.
_Lop_.
He raves now,
But 'twill be quickly off.
_Die_.
I do bequeath ye
Commodities of Pins, Brown-papers, Pack-threads,
Rost Pork, and Puddings, Ginger-bread, and Jews-trumps,
Of penny Pipes, and mouldy Pepper, take 'em,
Take 'em even where you please and be cozen'd with 'em,
I should bequeath ye Executions also,
But those I'le leave to th' Law.
_Lop_.
Now he grows temperate.
_Bar_.
You will give no more?
_Die_.
I am loth to give more from ye,
Because I know you will have a care to execute.
Only, to pious uses, Sir, a little.
_Bar_.
If he be worth all these, I am made for ever.
_Die_.
I give to fatal Dames, that spin mens threads out,
And poor distressed Damsels, that are militant
As members of our own Afflictions,
A hundred Crowns to buy warm Tubs to work in,
I give five hundred pounds to buy a Church-yard,
A spacious Church-yard, to lay Thieves and Knaves in,
Rich men and honest men take all the room up.
_Lop_.
Are ye not weary?
_Die_.
Never of well-doing.
_Bar_.
These are mad Legacies.
_Die_.
They were got as madly;
My Sheep, and Oxen, and my moveables,
My Plate, and Jewels, and five hundred Acres;
I have no heirs.
_Bar_.
This cannot be, 'tis monstrous.
_Die_.
Three Ships at Sea too.
_Bar_.
You have made me full Executor?
_Die_.
Full, full, and total, would I had more to give ye,
But these may serve an honest mind.
_Bar_.
Ye say true,
A very honest mind, and make it rich too;
Rich, wondrous rich, but where shall I raise these moneys,
About your house? I see no such great promises;
Where shall I find these sums?
_Die_.
Even where you please, Sir,
You are wise and provident, and know business,
Ev'n raise 'em where you shall think good, I am reasonable.
_Bar_.
Think good? will that raise thousands?
What do you make me?
_Die_.
You have sworn to see it done, that's all my comfort.
_Bar_.
Where I please? this is pack'd sure to disgrace me.
_Die_.
Ye are just, and honest, and I know you will do it,
Ev'n where you please, for you know where the wealth is.
_Bar_.
I am abused, betrayed, I am laugh'd at, scorn'd,
Baffl'd, and boared, it seems.
_Ars_.
No, no, ye are fooled.
_Lop_.
Most finely fooled, and handsomely, and neatly,
Such cunning Masters must be fool'd sometimes, Sir,
And have their Worships noses wiped, 'tis healthful,
We are but quit: you fool us of our moneys
In every Cause, in every Quiddit wipe us.
_Die_.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, some more drink, for my heart, Gentlemen.
This merry Lawyer--ha, ha, ha, ha, this Scholar--
I think this fit will cure me: this Executor--
I shall laugh out my Lungs.
_Bar_.
This is derision above sufferance, villany
Plotted and set against me.
_Die_.
Faith 'tis Knavery,
In troth I must confess, thou art fool'd indeed, Lawyer.
_Mil_.