p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy.
p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him.
p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free.
p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After
From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads]
_Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_.
CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry.
CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales.
PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am?
CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus.