A Collection Of Old English Plays, Vol. IV.
Mer. Tis true indeede; if all were of your mind, My poore estate would sooner be advanc'd, And our French Marchants seeke some other trade.
Beech. Your poore estate! nay, neighbour, say not so, For God be thanked you are well to live.
Mer. Not so good neighbour, but a poore young man, That would live better if I had the meanes: But as I am I can content myselfe, Till God amend my poore abilitie.
Neigh. In time no doubt; why, man, you are but young, And God, assure your selfe, hath wealth in store, If you awaight his will with patience.
Beech. Thankes be to God I live contentedlie, And yet I cannot boast of mightie wealth: But yet Gods blessings have beene infinit, And farre beyond my expectations. My shop is stor'd, I am not much in debt; And here I speake it where I may be bold, I have a score of poundes to helpe my neede, If God sho