_Young Lo_. They are the Morals of the Age, the vertues, men made of gold.

_Sav_. Of your gold you mean Sir.

_Young Lo_. This is a man of War, and cryes go on, and wears his colours.

_Sav_. In's nose.

_Young Lo_. In the fragrant field. This is a Traveller Sir, knows men and
manners, and has plow'd up the Sea so far till both the Poles have knockt,
has seen the Sun take Coach, and can distinguish the colour of his Horses,
and their kinds, and had a _Flanders_-Mare leapt there.

_Sav_. 'Tis much.

_Tra_. I have seen more Sir.

_Sav_. 'Tis even enough o' Conscience; sit down, and rest you, you are at
the end of the world already. Would you had as good a Living Sir, as this
fellow could lie you out of, he has a notable gift in't.

_Young Lo_. This ministers the smoak, and this the Muses.

_Sav_. And you the Cloaths, and Meat, and Money, you have a goodly
generation of 'em, pray let them multiply, your Brother's house is big
enough, and to say truth, h'as too much Land, hang it durt.

_Young Lo_. Why now thou art a loving stinkard. Fire off thy Annotations
and thy Rent-books, thou hast a weak brain _Savil_, and with the next long
Bill thou wilt run mad. Gentlemen, you are once more welcome to three