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2 As we do turne our backes From our Companion, throwne into his graue, So his Familiars to his buried Fortunes Slinke all away, leaue their false vowes with him Like empty purses pickt; and his poore selfe A dedicated Beggar to the Ayre, With his disease, of all shunn'd pouerty, Walkes like contempt alone. More of our Fellowes. Enter other Seruants.