From The Lady of Pleasure A Comedie, as It Was Acted by Her Majesties Servants, at the Private House in Drury Lane by James Shirley

But hath Sir Thomas lost five hundred pounds Already? Ser. And five hundred more he borrow'd, The Dice are notable devourers Madam, They make no more of peeces, than of pebbles, But thrust their heapes together to engender, Two hundred more the Caster cries this gentleman, I am w'ee. I ha that to nothing sir, the Caster Agen, tis covered, and the table too, With summes that frighed me, here one sneakes out, And with a Martyrs patience, smiles upon His moneyes Executioner, the Dice, Commands a pipe of good Tobacco, and I'th smoke on't vanishes; another makes The bones vault ore his head, sweares that ill throwing Has put his shoulder out of joynt, calls for A bone setter that lookes to'th boxe, to bid His master send him some more hundred pounds, Which lost, he takes tobacco, and is quiet; Here a strong arme throwes in, and in, with which He brusheth all the table, payes the Rookes That went their smelts a peece upon his hand, Yet sweares he has not drawne a stake this seven yeare. But I was bid make haste, my master may Lose this five hundred pounds ere I come thither. (Exit.)

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