_Un_. I know not whome you meane, sir: he that comands the family in chiefe, hath been honor'd with a sword and "rise Sir _Richard_" (who is but my father in lawe[226] to a[nd?] by a former wife): for Mr. _Underwitt_, whome to salute you humbled your Cloth a gold Dublet, I ken not the wight.
_Un_. Upon even tearmes I may call your name to memorie, but if you understand not my addition[227] it is honourable to forgett the best friend I have.
_De_. What's the mistry of this? Your addition? pray honour me to know it.
_Un_. He that was Mr. _Underwit_ is made a Captaine; you may, if you please, take notice of his title.
_De_. I beg your mercy, noble Captaine, and congratulate your addition of honour. It was Ignorance which, I professe, made me salute you with a wrong preface. Now, Capt., I shall bee proud to march under the ensigne of your favour.
_Un_. Friend _Device_, how does thy body? I am thy vassall; servant is for porters, watermen & lacquies, & is no witt neither. You preserve your tropes and your elegancies? What fancies doe adorne to-day? If I were a Constable I might apprehend you for suspition you had robd a pedlar. Does this thatchd cottage head hold still in fashion? What paid you for this dead mans hair? Where's your night rail[228]? The last time I saw you was in _Fleetstreet_, when at Complement and bare to an other gentleman. I tooke him for a Barber and I thought you by the wide lynnen about your neck [to] have been under correction in the suds[229], sir.
_De_. Wee are govern'd by the Mode, as waters by the Moone; but there are more changes in th'one than t'other. But does your Comand extend to the Sea or the land service?
_Un_. I never see the Sea in my life, sir, nor intend it.
_De_. You are not the first Captaine that has seene no service: 'tis time lost to travell for't when a man may bee a Comander at home. I never traveld myselfe.
_De_. And yet I understand garbes, from the elevation of your pole to the most humble galosh.
_Un_. Can your hanches play well in these close cut breeches? they want but a pummell to distinguish 'em from Trouses[230].
_De_. O sir, there is a perfect geometry in these breeches; you doe not observe the morality of your fancie, nor the gentile play and poize of your Lemon, Orange or Melon: this is gentry. Why, I understand all the curiosities of the Mode to a Mathematicall point, and yet I never travaild in all my life for't.