Enter Sir Politick.

Sir P. Sir, I must crave
Your courteous pardon. There hath chanced to-day,
Unkind disaster ’twixt my lady and me;
And I was penning my apology,
To give her satisfaction, as you came now.

Per. Sir, I am grieved I bring you worse disaster:
The gentleman you met at the port to-day,
That told you, he was newly arrived—

Sir P. Ay, was
A fugitive punk?

Per. No, sir, a spy set on you;
And he has made relation to the senate,
That you profest to him to have a plot
To sell the State of Venice to the Turk.

Sir P. O me!

Per. For which, warrants are sign’d by this time,
To apprehend you, and to search your study
For papers—

Sir P. Alas, sir, I have none, but notes
Drawn out of play-books—

Per. All the better, sir.

Sir P. And some essays. What shall I do?

Per. Sir, best
Convey yourself into a sugar-chest;
Or, if you could lie round, a frail were rare,
And I could send you aboard.

Sir P. Sir, I but talk’d so,
For discourse sake merely.

[Knocking within.

Per. Hark! they are there.

Sir P. I am a wretch, a wretch!

Per. What will you do, sir?
Have you ne’er a currant-butt to leap into?
They’ll put you to the rack; you must be sudden.

Sir P. Sir, I have an ingine—

3 Mer. [within.] Sir Politick Would-be!

2 Mer. [within.] Where is he?

Sir P. That I have thought upon before time.

Per. What is it?

Sir P. I shall ne’er endure the torture.
Marry, it is, sir, of a tortoise-shell,
Fitted for these extremities: Pray you, sir,help me.
Here I’ve a place, sir, to put back my legs,
Please you to lay it on, sir, [lies down while Peregrine places the shell upon him.]—with this cap,
And my black gloves. I’ll lie, sir, like a tortoise,
’Till they are gone.

Per. And call you this an ingine?