' Wee were conspiring
To goe to'th taverne.
_Cou_. Ile make one, gentlemen, to wash away some melancholy.
_Cap_. Spoke boldlie, like an _Argonaute_.
_Cou_.
I am not now in _London_,
Upon a hall day marching with the puisnes,
Twenty on's in a teame, to _Westminster_
In our torne gownes, embroiderd with _Strand_ dirt,
To heare the Law.
_Cap_. Is not thy father dead, thou talkst so well?
How I was cosend in thee: come away.
_Enter_Thomas_.
_Un_. Here's my man _Thomas_.
_Cap_. Now the Newes, Sir _Tristram_.
_Tho_.
Oh the Gentleman is mad.
_Un_. What gentleman?
_Tho_.
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