A

NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

The Outside of a Village Alehouse.

Enter WELLBORN, TAPWELL, and FROTH, from the
House.

Wellb. No liquor? nor no credit?
Tap. None, sir, for you;

Not the remainder of a single can,

Left by a drunken porter.

Froth. Not the dropping of the tap for your morning's draught, sir:

'Tis verity, I assure you.

Wellb. Verity, you brach!

The devil turn'd precisian! Rogue, what am I? Tap. Troth! durst I trust you with a lookingglass,

To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me, And take the name yourself.

Wellb. How? dog!

Tap. Even so, sir.

And I must tell you, if you but advance a foot, There dwells, and within call (if it please your worship,)

A potent monarch, call'd the constable,

That does command a citadel, call'd the stocks;
Such as with great dexterity will haul

Your poor tatter'd

Wellb. Rascal! slave!

Froth. No rage, sir.

Tap. At his own peril! Do not put yourself In too much heat; there being no water near To quench your thirst and sure, for other liquor, I take it,

You must no more remember; not in a dream, sir. Wellb. Why, thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou talk thus?

Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift?

Tap. I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tapwell Does keep no other register.

Wellb. Am not I he

Whose riots fed and cloth'd thee? Wert thou not
Born on my father's land, and proud to be

A drudge in his house?

Tap. What I was, sir, it skills not;

What you are, is apparent. Now, for a farewell: Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment

you,

I'll briefly tell your story.-Your dead father,

My quondam master, was a man of worship;

Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace, and quorum; And stood fair to be custos rotulorum:

Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house:

Reliev'd the poor, and so forth but he dying,
And the twelve hundred a-year coming to you,
Late Mr. Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn-
Wellb. Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.

Froth. Very hardly,

You cannot be out of your way.

Tap. But to my story-I shall proceed, sir:
You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant,
And I your under-butler: note the change now ;-
You had a merry time of't:-Hawks and hounds;
With choice of running horses; mistresses,
And other such extravagancies;

Which your uncle, Sir Giles Overreach, observing,
Resolving not to lose so fair an opportunity,
On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds,
For a while supplied your lavishness; and
Having got your land, then left you.

While I, honest Tim Tapwell, with a little stock,
Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage;
Humbled myself to marriage with my Froth here;
Gave entertainment-

Wellb. Yes, to whores and pickpockets.

Tap. True; but they brought in profit; And had a gift to pay what they call'd for; And stuck not like your mastership. The poor in

come

I glean'd from them, hath made me, in my parish,
Thought worthy to be scavenger; and, in time,
May rise to be overseer of the
poor:

Which if I do, on your petition, Wellborn,

I may allow you thirteen-pence a quarter;
And you shall thank my worship.

Wellb. Thus, you dog-bolt

And thus

Tap. Cry out for help!

Wellb. Stir, and thou diest:

[Beats him.

Your potent prince, the constable, shall not save you. Hear me, ungrateful hell-hound!—Did not I

Make

purses for you? Then you lick'd my boots, And thought your holiday coat too coarse to clean

them.

'Twas I, that when I heard thee swear, if ever

Thou couldst arrive at forty pounds, thou wouldst
Live like an emperor-'twas I that gave it,
In ready gold. Deny this, wretch!

Tap. I cannot, sir.

Wellb. They are well rewarded

That beggar themselves to make such rascals rich.
Thou viper, thankless viper!

But since you are grown forgetful, I will help
Your memory, and beat thee into remembrance;
Not leave one bone unbroken.

Tap. Oh!

Enter ALLWORTH.

Allw. Hold; for my sake, hold!

Deny me, Frank? they are not worth your anger? Wellb. For once thou hast redeem'd them from this

sceptre:

But let them vanish;

[Shaking his Cudgel.

For if they grumble, I revoke my pardon.

Froth. This comes of your prating, husband! you presum'd

On your ambling wit, and must use your glib tongue, Though you are beaten lame for't.

Tap. Patience, Froth,

There's no law to cure our bruises.

[They go off into the House,

Wellb. Sent for to your mother?

Allw. My lady, Frank! my patroness! my all! She's such a mourner for my father's death,

And, in her love to him, so favours me,

That I cannot pay too much observance to her.
There are few such stepdames.

Wellb. "Tis a noble widow,

And keeps her reputation pure, and clear
From the least taint.

Pr'ythee, tell me—

Has she no suitors?

Allw. Even the best of the shire, Frank,