_ He cannot last, I pity the poor man,
I suffer for him; two Coaches of young City dames,
And they drive as the Devil were in the wheels,
Are ready now to enter: and behind these
An old dead-palsied Lady in a Litter,
And she makes all the haste she can: the man's lost,
You may gather up his dry bones to make Nine-pins,
But for his flesh.
_Sulp._ These are but easie labours
Yet, for I know he must have rest.
_Ja._ He must--you'll beat him off his legs else presently.
_Sul._ Go in, and bid him please himself, I am pleas'd too:
To morrow's a new day; but if he can
I would have him take pity o' the old Lady.
Alas 'tis charity.
_Jaq._ I'le tell him all this,
And if he be not too fool-hardy.
_Enter_ Zabulon.
_Sulp._ How now?
What news with you?
_Zab._ You must presently
Shew all the art you have, and for my Lady.
_Sulp._ She may command.
_Zab._ You must not dream nor trifle.
_Sulp._ Which way?
_Zab._ A spell you must prepare, a powerful one,
Peruse but these directions, you shall find all;
There is the picture too, be quick, and faithful,
And do it with that strength--when 'tis perform'd,
Pitch your reward at what you please, you have it.
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