_Maff._ Pray doe so,    
That you may use me better. For your selfe,    
By your no better outside, I would judge you    
To be some poet. Have you given my lord      
Some pamphlet?    
_Buss._ Pamphlet!    
_Maff._ Pamphlet, sir, I say.    
_Buss._ Did your great masters goodnesse leave the good,    
That is to passe your charge to my poore use,    
To your discretion?    
_Maff._ Though he did not, sir,    
I hope 'tis no rude office to aske reason      
How that his Grace gives me in charge, goes from me?    
_Buss._ That's very perfect, sir.    
_Maff._ Why, very good, sir;    
I pray, then, give me leave. If for no pamphlet,      
May I not know what other merit in you    
Makes his compunction willing to relieve you?    
_Buss._ No merit in the world, sir.    
_Maff._ That is strange.    
Y'are a poore souldier, are you?    
_Buss._ That I am, sir.    
_Maff._ And have commanded?    
_Buss._ I, and gone without, sir.    
_Maff._ I see the man: a hundred crownes will make him      
Swagger, and drinke healths to his Graces bountie,    
And sweare he could not be more bountifull;    
So there's nine hundred crounes sav'd. Here, tall souldier,    
His Grace hath sent you a whole hundred crownes.    
_Buss._ A hundred, sir! Nay, doe his Highnesse right;    
I know his hand is larger, and perhaps    
I may deserve more than my outside shewes.    
I am a poet as I am a souldier,      
And I can poetise; and (being well encourag'd)    
May sing his fame for giving; yours for delivering    
(Like a most faithfull steward) what he gives.    
_Maff._ What shall your subject be?    
_Buss._ I care not much    
If to his bounteous Grace I sing the praise    
Of faire great noses, and to you of long ones.    

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