Widow.

Oh, that ever I was born, that ever I was born!

Sir Godfrey.

Nay good sister, dear sister, sweet sister, be of good comfort, shew your self a woman, now or never.

Wid.

Oh, I have lost the dearest man, I have buried the sweetest husband that ever lay by woman.

Sir God.

Nay give him his due, he was indeed an honest, virtuous, discreet wise man,—he was my Brother, as right, as right.

Wid.

O, I shall never forget him, never forget him, he was a man so well given to a woman—oh!

Sir God.

Nay, but kind sister, I could weep as much as any woman, but alass, our teares cannot call him again: me thinks you are well read, sister, and know that death is as common as Homo, a common name to all men;—a man shall be taken when he's making water,—nay, did not the learned Parson Master Pigman tell us e'ne now, that all Flesh is frail, we are born to die, Man has but a time: with such like deep and profound perswasions, as he is a rare fellow you know, and an excellent Reader: and for example, (as there are examples abundance) did not Sir Humphrey Bubble die tother day, there's a lusty Widow, why she cri'd not above half an hour—for shame, for shame: then followed him old Master Fulsome the Usurer, there's a wise Widow, why she cry'd ne're a whit at all.

Wid.

O ranck not me with those wicked women, I had a husband out-shin'd 'em all.

Sir God.

I that he did, ifaith, he out-shin'd 'em all.

Wid.

Dost thou stand there and see us all weep, and not once shed a tear for thy fathers death? oh thou ungracious son and heir thou?

Edm.

Troth, Mother, I should not weep I'me sure; I am past a Child I hope, to make all my old School-fellowes laugh at me; I should be mockt, so I should; pray let one of my sisters weep for me, I'le laugh as much for her another time?

Wid.

O thou past-Grace thou, out of my sight, thou gracelesse Imp, thou grievest me more then the death of thy Father: oh thou stubborn onely Son: hadst thou such an honest man to thy Father—that would deceive all the world to get riches for thee, and canst thou not afford a little salt water? he that so wisely did quite overthrow the right heir of those Lands, which now you respect not: up every morning betwixt four and five, so duely at Westminster-Hall every Tearm-time, with all his Cards and Writings, for thee, thou wicked Absalon—oh dear husband!

Edm.

Weep, quotha? I protest I am glad he's Churched? for now he's gone I shall spend in quiet.

Fran.
Dear Mother, pray cease, half your teares suffice,
'Tis time for you to take truce with your eyes,
Let me weep now?

Wid.

O such a dear Knight, such a sweet Husband have I lost, have I lost?—if blessed be the Coarse the rain rains upon, he had it, pouring down?

Sir. God.

Sister, be of good cheer, we are all mortall our selves, I come upon you freshly, I ne're speak without comfort, hear me what I shall say;—my brother has left you wealthy, y'are rich.

Wid.

Oh!

Sir God.

I say y'are rich: you are also fair.

Wid.

Oh!

Sir God.

Go to, y'are fair, you cannot smother it, beauty will come to light; nor are your yeares so far enter'd with you, but that you will be sought after, and may very well answer another husband; the world is full of fine Gallants, choyce enow, sister,—for what should we doe with all our Knights I pray? but to marry rich Widowes, wealthy Citizens Widowes; lusty fairbrow'd Ladies; go to, be of good comfort I say, leave snobbing and weeping—yet my Brother was a kindhearted man—I would not have the Elf see me now? —come, pluck up a womans heart—here stands your Daughters, who be well estated, and at maturity will also be enquir'd after with good husbands, so all these teares shall be soon dried up, and a better world then ever— what, Woman? you must not weep still? he's dead, he's buried—yet I cannot chuse but weep for him.

Wid.
Marry again! no, let me be buried quick then!
And that same part of Quire whereon I tread
To such intent, O may it be my grave:
And that the Priest may turn his wedding prayers,

Even with a breath, to funerall dust and ashes;

Oh, out of a million of millions, I should ne're find such a husband; he was unmatchable—unmatchable: nothing was so hot, nor too dear for me, I could not speak of that one thing that I had not, beside, I had keyes of all, kept all, receiv'd all, had money in my purse, spent what I would, went abroad abroad when I would, came home when I would, and did all what I would: Oh—my sweet husband; I shall never have the like.

Sir God.

Sister? ne're say so, he was an honest Brother of mine, and so, and you may light upon one as honest again, or one, as honest again may light upon you, that's the properer phrase indeed.

Wid.
Never: oh if you love me urge it not:
Oh may I be the by-word of the world,
The common talk at Table in the mouth
Of every Groom and Waiter, if e're more
I entertain the carnall suit of man.

Mol.
I must kneel down for fashion too.

Franck.
And I, whom never man as yet hath scal'd,
E'ne in this depth of generall sorrow, vow
Never to marry, to sustain such losse,
As a dear husband seems to be, once dead.

Mol.
I lov'd my Father well too; but to say,
Nay vow, I would not marry for his death,
Sure I should speak false Latin, should I not?
I'de as soon vow never to come in Bed:
Tut, Women must live by th' quick, and not by th' dead.

Wid.
Dear Copy of my husband, oh let me kiss thee: Drawing out her Husbands Picture.
How like him is their Model; their brief Picture
Quickens my teares: my sorrowes are renew'd
At their fresh sight.

Sir God.
Sister—

Wid.
Away,
All honesty with him is turn'd to clay,
Oh my sweet husband, oh—

Frank.
My dear Father? Exeunt mother & daughters.

Mol.

Here's a puling indeed! I think my Mother weeps for all the women that ever buried husbands: for if from time to time all the Widowers teares in England had been bottled up, I doe not think all would have fill'd a three-half-penny Bottle: alass, a small matter bucks a Handkercher,—and sometimes the spittle stands too nigh Saint Thomas a Watrings: well, I can mourn in good sober sort as well as another? but where I spend one tear for a dead Father, I could give twenty kisses for a quick husband.

Sir God.

Well, go thy wayes, old Sir Godfrey, and thou may'st be proud on't, thou hast a kind loving sister-in-law: how constant? how passionate? how full of April the poor soules eyes are; well, I would my Brother knew on't, he should then know what a kind Wife he had left behind him; truth, and 'twere not for shame that the neighbours at th'next Garden should hear me betwixt joy and grief, I should e'ne cry out-right.

Edmond.

So, a fair riddance, my Father's laid in dust, his Coffin and he is like a whole Meat-Pye, and the wormes will cut him up shortly: farewell, old Dad, farewell; I'le be curb'd in no more: I perceive a son and heir may quickly be made a fool and he will be one, but I'le take another order;—Now she would have me weep for him forsooth, and why; because he cozen'd the right heir being a fool, and bestow'd those Lands on me his eldest Son; and therefore I must weep for him, ha, ha: why all the world knowes, as long as 'twas his pleasure to get me, 'twas his duty to get for me: I know the Law in that point, no Atturney can gull me. Well, my Unckle is an old Asse, and an admirable Coxcombe, I'le rule the Roast my self, I'le be kept under no more, I know what I may doe well enough by my Fathers Copy: the Law's in mine own hands now: nay now I know my strength, I'le be strong enough for my Mother I warrant you?

Pye.

What's to be done now, old Lad of War, thou that wert wont to be as hot as a turn-spit, as nimble as a Fencer, and as lowsie as a Schoole-master; now thou art put to silence like a Sectary,—War sits now like a Justice of peace, and does nothing: where be your Muskets, Calivers and Hotshots? in Long-lane, at pawn, at pawn;—Now keyes are out onely Guns, Key-guns, Key-guns, and Bawdes the Gunners,—who are your sentinells in peace, and stand ready charg'd to give warning; with hems, hums, and pocky-coffs; onely your Chambers are licenst to play upon you, and Drabs enow to give fire to 'em.

Skir.

Well, I cannot tell, but I am sure it goes wrong with me, for since the cessure of the wars, I have spent above a hundred Crownes out a purse: I have been a Soldier any time this forty yeares, and now I perceive an old Soldier, and an old Courtier have both one destiny, and in the end turn both into hob-nayles.

Pye.

Pretty mystery for a Beggar, for indeed a hobnaile is the true embleme of a Beggar's Shoe-soale.

Skir.

I will not say but that War is a bloud-sucker, and so; but in my conscience, (as there is no soldier but has a piece of one, though it be full of holes like a shot Ancient, no matter, 'twill serve to swear by) in my conscience, I think some kinde of Peace has more hidden oppressions, and violent heady sins, (though looking of a gentle nature) then a profest warre.

Pye.

Troth, and for mine own part, I am a poor Gentleman, and a Schollar, I have been matriculated in the University, wore out six Gowns there, seen some fools, and some Schollars, some of the City, and some of the Countrey, kept order, went bare-headed over the Quadrangle, eat my Commons with a good stomack, and Battled with Discretion; at last, having done many slights and tricks to maintain my wit in use (as my brain would never endure me to be idle,) I was expell'd the University, onely for stealing a Cheese out of Jesus Colledge.

Skir.

Is't possible?

Pye.

Oh! there was one Welshman (God forgive him) pursued it hard? and never left, till I turn'd my staffe toward London, where when I came, all my friends were pit-hold, gone to Graves, (as indeed there was but a few left before) then was I turn'd to my wits, to shift in the world, to towre among Sons and Heires, and Fooles, and Gulls, and Ladies eldest Sons, to work upon nothing, to feed out of Flint, and ever since has my belly been much beholding to my brain: But now to return to you, old Skirmish. I say as you say, and for my part wish a Turbulency in the world, for I have nothing in the world, but my wits, and I think they are as mad as they will be: and to strengthen your Argument the more, I say an honest warre, is better than a bawdy peace: as touching

my profession; the multiplicity of Schollars, hatch, and nourisht in the idle Calmes of peace, makes'em like Fishes one devour another; and the communitie of Learning has so plaid upon affections, and there by almost Religion is come about to Phantasie, and discredited by being too much spoken of—in so many and mean mouths. I my self being a Schollar and a Graduate, have no other comfort by my learning, but the affection of my words, to know how Schollar-like to name what I want, and can call my self a Beggar both in Greek and Latine, and therefore not to cog with Peace, I'le not be afraid to say, 'tis a great Breeder, but a bad Nourisher: a great getter of Children, which must either be Thieves or Rich men, Knaves or Beggars.

Skirmish.

Well, would I had been born a Knave then, when I was born a Beggar, for if the truth were known, I think I was begot when my Father had never a penny in his purse.

Pye.

Puh, faint not old Skirmish, let this warrant thee, Facilis Descensus Averni, 'tis an easie journey to a Knave, thou maist be a Knave when thou wilt; and Peace is a good Madam to all other professions, and an arrant Drab to us, let us handle her accordingly, and by our wits thrive in despight of her; for the law lives by quarrels, the Courtier by smooth good-morrows, and every profession makes it self greater by imperfections, why not we then by shifts, wiles, and forgeries? and seeing our brains are the onely Patrimonies, let's spend with judgement, not like a desperate son and heir, but like a sober and discreet Templer,—one that will never march beyond the bounds of his allowance, and for our thriving means, thus, I my self will put on the Deceit of a Fortune-teller, a Fortune-teller.

Skirm.

Very proper.

Pye.

And you a figure-caster, or a Conjurer.

Skir.

A Conjurer.

Pye.

Let me alone, I'le instruct you, and teach you to deceive all eyes, but the Devils.

Skir.

Oh I, for I would not deceive him and I could choose, of all others.

Pye.

Fear not I warrant you; and so by these means we shall help one another to Patients, as the condition of the age affords creatures enow for cunning to work upon.

Skir.

Oh wondrous, new fools and fresh asses.

Pye.

Oh, fit, fit, excellent.

Skir.

What in the name of Conjuring?

Pye-boord.

My memory greets me happily with an admirable subject to graze upon. The Lady-Widow, who of late I saw weeping in her Garden, for the death of her Husband, sure she's but a watrish soul, and half on't by this time is dropt out of her eyes: device well manag'd may do good upon her: it stands firme, my first practise shall be there.

Skir.

You have my voice, George.

Pye-board.

Sh'as a gray Gull to her Brother, a fool to her onely son, and an ape to her youngest Daughter;— I over-heard'em severally, and from their words I'le drive my device; and thou old Peter Skirmish shalt be my second in all slights.

Skir.

Ne're doubt me, George Pye-board,—only you must teach me to conjure.

Pye.
Puh, I'le perfect thee, Peter:
How now? what's he?

Skir.
Oh George! this sight kills me,
'Tis my sworn Brother, Captain Idle.

Pye.

Captain Idle.

Skir.

Apprehended for some fellonious act or other, he has started out, h'as made a Night on't, lackt silver; I cannot but commend his resolution, he would not pawn his Buff-Jerkin, I would either some of us were employed, or might pitch our Tents at Usurers doors, to kill the slaves as they peep out at the Wicket.

Pye.

Indeed those are our ancient enemies; they keep our money in their hands, and make us to be hang'd for robbing of'em, but come let's follow after to the Prison, and know the nature of his offence, and what we can stead him in, he shall be sure of; and I'le uphold it still, that a charitable Knave, is better then a soothing Puritan.

Nich.

What Corporal Oath? I am sorry we have met with you next our hearts; you are the man that we are forbidden to keep company withall, we must not swear I can tell you, and you have the name for swearing.

Sim.

I, Corporal Oath, I would you would do so much as forsake us, we cannot abide you, we must not be seen in your company.

Frail.

There is none of us I can tell you, but shall be soundly whipt for swearing.

Corp.

Why how now? we three? Puritanical Scrapeshooes, Flesh a good Fridayes; a hand.

All.

Oh.

Corp.

Why Nicholas Saint-Tantlings, Simon Saint Mary-Overies, has the De'il possest you, that you swear no better, you half-Christened Katomites, you ungodmother'd Varlets, do's the first lesson teach you to be proud, and the second to be Cox-combs; proud Cox-combs; not once to do duty to a man of Mark.

Frail.

A man of Mark, quatha, I do not think he can shew a Beggars Noble.

Corp.

A Corporal, a Commander, one of spirit, that is able to blow you up all drye with your Books at your Girdles.

Simon.

We are not taught to believe that, sir, for we know the breath of man is weak.

Frail.

Foh, you lie Nicholas; for here's one strong enough; blows us up, quatha, he may well blow me above twelve-score off on him: I warrant if the wind stood right, a man might smell him from the top of Newgate, to the the Leads of Ludgate.

Corp.

Sirrah, thou hollow book of Wax-candle.

Nich.

I, you may say what you will, so you swear not.

Corp.

I swear by the—

Nich.

Hold, hold, good Corporal Oath; for if you swear once, we shall fall down in a sown presently.

Corp.

I must and will swear: you quivering Cox-combs, my Captain is imprisoned, and by Vulcan's Leather Cod-piece point—

Nich.

O Simon, what an oath was there.

Frail.

If he should chance to break it, the poor man's Breeches would fall down about his heels, for Venus allows but one point to his hose.

Cor.

With these, my Bully-Feet, I will thump ope the Prison doors, and brain the Keeper with the begging-Box, but I'le set my honest sweet Captain Idle at liberty.

Nic.

How, Captain Idle? my old Aunts son, my dear Kinsman in Cappadochio.

Cor.

I, thou Church-peeling, thou Holy-paring, Religious out-side thou; if thou had'st any grace in thee, thou would'st visit him, relieve him, swear to get him out.

Nic.

Assure you, Corporal, indeed-la, 'tis the first time I heard on't.

Cor.

Why do't now then, Marmaset; bring forth thy yearly-wages, let not a Commander perish?

Simon.

But if he be one of the wicked, he shall perish.

Nic.

Well Corporal, I'le e'en along with you, to visit my Kinsman, if I can do him any good, I will,—but I have nothing for him, Simon Saint Mary Ovaries and Frailty, pray make a Lye for me to the Knight my Master, old Sir Godfrey.

Cor.

A Lye? may you lye then?

Frail.

O I, we may lye, but we must not swear.

Sim.

True, we may lie with our Neighbour's wife, but we must not swear we did so.

Cor.

Oh, an excellent Tag of Religion!

Nic.

Oh Simon, I have thought upon a sound excuse, it will go currant, say that I am gon to a Fast.

Sim.

To a Fast? very good.

Nic.

I, to a Fast say, with master Full-belly the Minister.

Sim.

Master Full-belly? an honest man: he feeds the flock well, for he's an excellent Feeder.

Frail.

O I, I have seen him eat up a whole Pig, and afterwards fall to the pettitoes.

Pye.

Pray turn the key.

Skir.

Turn the key I pray?

Cap.

Who should those be, I almost know their voices? O my friends!

Y'are welcome to a smelling Room here? you newly took leave of the air, is't not a strange savour?

Pie.
As all Prison's have smells of sundry wretches;
Who though departed, leave their sents behind 'em,
By Gold Captain, I am sincerely sorry for thee.

Cap.

By my troth, George, I thank thee; but, pish— what must be, must be.

Skir.

Captain, what do you lie in for? is't great? what's your offence?

Cap.

Faith, my offence is ordinary,—common, a High-way, and I fear me my penalty will be ordinary and common too, a Halter.

Pye.
Nay, prophesie not so ill, it shall go hard
But I'le shift for thy life.

Cap.

Whether I live or dye, thou'rt an honest George. I'le tell you—Silver flow'd not with me, as it had done, (for now the tide runs to Bawds and Flatterers) I had a start out, and by chance set upon a fat Steward, thinking his Purse had been as pursie as his body; and the slave had about him but the poor purchase of ten groats: notwithstanding being descryed, pursued, and taken, I know the Law is grim, in respect of many desperate, unsetled Souldiers, that I fear me I shall dance after their pipe for't.

Skir.

I am twice sorry for you, Captain; first, that your purchase was so small, and now that your danger is so great.

Cap.

Push, the worst is but death,—ha you a pipe of Tobacco about you?

Skir.
I think I have thereabouts about me! Captain blows a pipe.

Cap.
Here's a clean Gentlman too, to receive.

Pye.
Well, I must cast about some happy slight:
Work brain, that ever did'st thy Master right.

Cor.
Keeper, let the key be turn'd. Corporal and Nicholas within.

Nic.
I, I, pray master Keeper give's a cast of your office.

Cap.
How now? more visitants?—what, Corporal Oath?

Pye. Skir.

Corporal.

Cor.

In prison, honest Captain? this must not be.

Nic.

How do you, Captain Kinsman?

Cap.

Good Coxcomb, what makes that pure,—starcht fool here?

Nic.

You see, Kinsman, I am somewhat bold to call in, and see how you do; I heard you were safe enough, and I was very glad on't, that it was no worse.

Cap.

This is a double torture now,—this fool by th' book doth vex me more then my imprisonment. What meant you, Corporal, to hook him hither?

Cor.

Who, he? he shall relieve thee, and supply thee, I'le make him do't.

Cap.

Fie, what vain breath you spend: He supply? I'le sooner expect mercy from a Usurer when my Bond's forfeited, sooner kindnesse from a Lawyer when my money's spent: nay, sooner charity from the Devil, then good from a Puritan. I'le look for relief from him, when Lucifer is restor'd to his bloud, and in Heaven again.

Nic.

I warrant my Kinsman's talking of me, for my left ear burns most tyrannically.

Pye.

Captain Idle? what's he there? he looks like a Monkey upward, and a Crane downward.

Cap.

Pshaw; a foolish cousin of mine: I must thank God for him.

Pye.

Why the better subject to work a scape upon; thou shalt e'en change cloathes with him, and leave him here, and so—

Cap.

Push, I publisht him e'en now to my Corporal, he will be damn'd ere he do me so much good; why I know a more proper, a more handsome device then that, if the slave would be sociable,—now goodman Fleer-face?

Nic.

Oh, my Cousin begins to speak to me now, I shall be acquainted with him again, I hope.

Skir.

Look! what ridiculous Raptures take hold of his wrinckles.

Pye.

Then what say you to this device, a happy one, Captain?

Cap.

Speak low, George; Prison Rats have wider eares then those in Malt-lofts.

Nic.

Cousin, if it lay in my power, as they say—to—do—

Cap.

'Twould do me an exceeding pleasure indeed, that; nere talk forder on't, the fool will be hang'd ere he do't.

Cor.

Pax, I'le thump'im to't.

Pye.

Why do but try the Fopster, and break it to him bluntly.

Cap.

And so my disgrace will dwell in his Jawes, & the

Slave slaver out our purpose to his Master, for would I were but as sure on't, as I am sure he will deny to do't.

Nic.

I would be heartily glad, Cousin, if any of my friendships, as they say, might—stand, ah—

Pye.

Why, you see he offers his friendship foolishly to you already.

Cap.

I, that's the hell on't, I would he would offer it wisely.

Nic.

Verily, and indeed-la, Cousin—

Cap.

I have took note of thy fleers a good while, if thou art minded to do me good? as thou gap'st upon me comfortably, and giv'st me charitable faces; which indeed is but a fashion in you all that are Puritans, wilt soon at night steal me thy Master's Chain?

Nic.

Oh, I shall sowne!

Pye.

Corporal, he starts already!

Cap.

I know it to be worth three hundred Crowns, and with the half of that, I can buy my life at a Brokers, at second hand, which now lies in pawn to the Law, if this thou refuse to do, being easie and nothing dangerous, in that thou art held in good opinion of thy Master; why 'tis a palpable Argument thou hold'st my life at no price, and these thy broken and unjoynted offers, are but only created in thy lip, now born, and now buried, foolish breath only: what, woult do't? shall I look for happinesse in thy answer?

Nich.

Steal my Master's Chain quoth he? no, it shall nere be said, that Nicholas Saint Tantlings committed Bird-lime!

Cap.

Nay, I told you as much, did I not? though he be a Puritan, yet he will be a true man.

Nic.

Why Cousin, you know 'tis written, Thou shalt not steal.

Cap.

Why, and fool, thou shalt love thy Neighbour, and help him in extremities.

Nic.

Mass I think it be indeed; in what Chapter's that, Cousin?

Capt.

Why in the first of Charity, the second verse.

Nic.

The first of Charity, quath a, that's a good jest, there no such Chapter in my book!

Cap.

No, I know twas torn out of thy Book, and that makes so little in thy heart.

Pye.

Come, let me tell you, y'are too unkind a Kinsman ifaith; the Captain loving you so dearly, I, like the Pomwater of his eye, & you to be so uncomfortable, fie, fie.

Nic.

Pray do not wish me to be hang'd, any thing else that I can do; had it been to rob, I would ha don't, but I must not Steal, that's the word, the literal, Thou shalt not steal; and would you wish me to steal then?

Pye.

No faith, that were too much, to speak truth; why wilt thou Nim it from him?

Nic.

That I will.

Pye.

Why enough, Bully; he will be content with that, or he shall ha none; let me alone with him now, Captain, I ha dealt with your Kinsman in a corner; a good, —kind-natur'd fellow, me thinks: go to, you shall not have all your own asking, you shall bate somewhat on't, he is not contented absolutely, as you would say, to steal the Chain from him, but to do you a pleasure, he will nim it from him.

Nic.

I, that I will, Cousin.

Cap.

Well, seeing he will do no more, as far as I see, I must be contented with that.

Cor.

Here's no notable gullery?

Pye.

Nay, I'le come nearer to you, Gentleman, because we'll have only but a help and a mirth on't, the Knight shall not lose his Chain neither, but be only laid out of the way some one or two dayes.

Nic.

I, that would be good indeed, Kinsman.

Pye.

For I have a farder reach, to profit us better, by the missing on't only, then if we had it out-right, as my discourse shall make it known to you;—when thou hast the Chain, do but convey it out at a back-door into the Garden, and there hang it close in the Rosemary banck, but for a small season; and by that harmlesse device, I know how to wind Captain Idle out of prison, the Knight thy Master shall get his pardon, and release him, and he satisfie thy Master with his own Chain, and wondrous thanks on both hands.

Nic.

That were rare indeed la, pray let me know how.

Pye.

Nay, 'tis very necessary thou should'st know, because thou must be employ'd as an Actor?

Nic.

An Actor? O no, that's a Player? and our Parson rails against Players mightily I can tell you, because they brought him drunk upo'th'Stage once,—as he will be horribly drunk.

Cor.

Mass I cannot blame him then, poor Church-spout.

Pye.

Why as an Intermedler then?

Nic.

I, that, that.

Pye.

Give me audience then; when the old Knight thy Master has rag'd his fill for the loss of the Chain, tell him thou hast a Kinsman in prison, of such exquisite Art, that the Devil himself is French Lackey to him, and runs bare-headed by his horse—belly (when he has one:) whom he will cause, with most Irish dexterity to fetch his Chain, though 'twere hid under a mine of Sea-coal, and ne're make Spade or Pick-axe his instruments; tell him but this, with farder instructions thou shalt receive from me, and thou show'st thy self a Kinsman indeed.

Cor.

A dainty Bully.

Skir.

An honest—Book-keeper.

Cap.

And my three times thrice honey-Cousin.

Nic.

Nay, grace of God I'le rob him on't suddenly, and hang it in the Rosemary banck, but I bear that mind, Cousin, I would not Steal any thing, me thinks, for mine own Father.

Skir.

He bears a good mind in that, Captain.

Py.

Why well said, he begins to be an honest fellow, faith.

Cor.

In troth he does.

Nic.

You see, Cousin, I am willing to do you any kindness, alwayes saving my self harmless.

Captain.

Why I thank thee, fare thee well, I shall requite it.

Cor.

'Twill be good for thee, Captain, that thou hast such an egregious Asse to thy Cousin.

Cap.
I, is not that a fine fool, Corporal?
But George, thou talk'st of Art and Conjuring,
How shall that be?

Pyb.
Puh, be't not in your care,
Leave that to me and my directions;
Well, Captain, doubt not thy delivery now,
E'en with the vantage, man, to gain by Prison,
As my thoughts prompt me: hold on brain and plot,
I aim at many cunning far events,
All which I doubt not to hit at length,
I'le to the Widow with a quaint assault,
Captain be merry.

Cap.
Who I? Kerry merry Buffe-Jerkin.

Pye.

Oh, I am happy in more slights, and one will knit strong in another,—Corporal Oath.

Cor.

Hoh Bully!

Pye.

And thou, old Peter Skirmish, I have a necessary task for you both.

Skir.

Lay't upon George Pye-bord.

Corp.

What e're it be, we'll manage it.

Pye.

I would have you two maintain a quarrell before the Lady Widdowes door, and draw your Swords ith'edge of the Evening: clash a little, clash, clash.

Corp.
Fuh.
Let us alone to make our Blades ring noon,
Though it be after supper.

Pye.
I know you can;

And out of that false fire, I doubt not but to raise strange belief—and, Captain, to countenance my device the better, and grace my words to the Widow, I have a good plain Sattin Sute, that I had of a young Reveller tother night, for words pass not regarded now a dayes, unless they come from a good suit of cloathes, which the Fates and my wits have bestowed upon me. Well, Captain Idle, if I did not highly love thee, I would ne're be seen within twelve score of a prison, for I protest at this instant, I walk in great danger of small debts; I owe money to severall Hostesses, and you know such Jills will quickly be upon a mans Jack.

Capt.

True, George?

Pye.

Fare thee well, Captain. Come Corporall and Ancient, thou shalt hear more newes next time we greet thee.

Corp.

More newes? I, by yon Bear at Bridge-Foot in heaven shalt thou.

Capt.
Enough: my friends farewell,
This prison shewes as if Ghosts did part in Hell. Enter Moll youngest Daughter to the Widow, alone.

Moll.

Not marry? forswear marriage? why all women know 'tis as honourable a thing as to lie with a man; and I to spight my Sisters vow the more, have entertain'd a Suiter already, a fine Gallant Knight of the last Feather, he sayes he will Coach me too, and well appoint me, allow me money to Dice withall, and many such pleasing protestations he sticks upon my lips: indeed his short-winded Father ith' Countrey is wondrous wealthy, a most abominable Farmer, and therefore he may dote in time: troth I'le venter upon him; women are not without wayes enough to help themselves: if he prove wise and good as his word, why I shall love him, and use him kindly; and if he prove an Asse, why in a quarter of an houres warning I can transform him into an Oxe;— there comes in my relief again.

Frail.
O, Mistresse Moll, Mistresse Moll.

Moll.
How now? what's the newes?

Frail.
The Knight your Suiter, Sir John Penny-Dub.

Moll.
Sir John Penny-Dub? where? where?

Frail.
He's walking in the Gallery.

Moll.
Has my Mother seen him yet?

Frail.
O no, she's—spitting in the Kitchin.

Moll.
Direct him hither softly, good Frailty,
I'le meet him half way.

Frail.

That's just like running a Tilt; but I hope he'll break nothing this time.

Moll.
'Tis happinesse my Mother saw him not:
O welcome, good Sir John.

Penny-Dub.

I thank you faith,—Nay you must stand me till I kisse you: 'tis the fashion every where ifaith, and I came from Court enow.

Moll.

Nay the Fates forfend that I should anger the fashion?

Penny.

Then not forgetting the sweet of new ceremonies, I first fall back, then recovering my self; make my honour to your lip thus: and then accost it.

Moll.

Trust me, very pretty, and moving, y'are worthy on't, sir.

Sir Godf.

Nay, Sister, let Reason rule you, doe not play the foole, stand not in your own light, you have wealthy offers, large tendrings, doe not withstand your good fortune: who comes a wooing to you I pray? no small fool, a rich Knight oth' City, Sir Oliver Muck-hill, no small fool I can tell you: and furthermore as I heard late by your Maid-servants (as your Maid-servants will say to me any thing, I thank 'em) both your Daughters are not without Suiters, I, and worthy ones too; one a brisk Courtier, Sir Andrew Tip-staffe, suiter afar off to your eldest Daughter, and the third a huge wealthy Farmers Son, a fine young Country Knight, they call him Sir John Penny-Dub, a good name marry, he may have it coyn'd when he lacks money: what blessings are these, Sister?

Wid.

Tempt me not, Satan.

Sir God.

Satan? doe I look like Satan? I hope the Devil's not so old as I, trow.

Wid.
You wound my sences, Brother, when you name
A suiter to me,—oh I cannot abide it,
I take in poyson when I hear one nam'd. Enter Simon.
How now, Simon? where's my son Edmond?

Sim.

Verily, Madam, he is at vain Exercise, dripping in the Tennis-Court.

Wid.

At Tennis-Court? oh, now his Father's gone, I shall have no rule with him; oh wicked Edmond, I might well compare this with the Prophecy in the Chronicle, though far inferiour, as Harry of Monmouth won all, and Harry of Windsor lost all; so Edmond of Bristow that was the Father, got all, and Edmond of London that's his son now, will spend all.

Sir Godf.

Peace, sister, we'll have him reform'd, there's hope on him yet, though it be but a little.

Frail.

Forsooth Madam; there are two or three Archers at door would very gladly speak with your Ladiship.

Wid.

Archers?

Sir God.
Your Husbands Fletcher I warrant.

Wid.
Oh,
Let them come near, they bring home things of his,
Troth I should ha forgot 'em, how now?
Villain, which be those Archers? Enter the Suiters, Sir Andrew Tipstaffe, Sir Oliver Muck-hill, and Penni-Dub.

Frail.

Why, do you not see 'em before you? are not

these Archers, what do you call'em Shooters: Shooters and Archers are all one I hope.

Wid.
Out ignorant slave.

Muck.
Nay, pray be patient Lady,
We come in way of honorable love.

Tipst. Penny.

We do.

Muck.

To you.

Tipst. Penny.

And to your Daughters.

Wid.

O why will you offer me this, Gentlemen? indeed I will not look upon you; when the tears are scarce out of mine eyes, not yet washt off from my cheeks, and my deer husbands body scarce so cold as the Coffin, what reason have you to offer it? I am not like some of your Widows that will bury one in the evening, and be sure to another ere morning; pray away, pray take your answers good Knights, and you be sweet Knights, I have vow'd never to marry;—and so have my daughters too!

Penny.

I, two of you have, but the third's a good wench!

Muck.

Lady, a shrewd answer marry; the best is, 'tis but the first, and he's a blunt wooer, that will leave for one sharp answer.

Tip.

Where be your Daughters Lady, I hope they'll give us better encouragements?

Wid.

Indeed they'll answer you so, take't a my word they'll give you the very same answer Verbatim truly la.

Penny.

Mum: Moll's a good wench still, I know what she'll do?

Muck.

Well, Lady, for this time we'll take our leaves, hoping for better comfort.

Wid.

O never, never: and I live these thousand years; and you be good Knights, do not hope; 'twill be all Vain, Vain,—look you put off all your suits, and you come to me again.

Frail.

Put of all their suits, quatha? I that's the best wooing of a Widdow indeed, when a man's Nonsuted, that is, when he's a bed with her.

Muck.

Sir Godfrey? here's twenty Angels more, work hard for me; there's life in't yet.

Sir Godf.

Fear not Sir Oliver Muckhill, I'le stick close for you, leave all with me.

Pye.

By your leave Lady Widow.

Wid.

What another suiter now?

Pye.

A suiter, no, I protest Lady? if you'd give me your self, I'de not be troubled with you.

Wid.

Say you so Sir, then you're the better welcome sir.

Pye.

Nay, Heaven blesse me from a Widow, unlesse I were sure to bury her speedily!

Wid.

Good bluntnesse: well, your businesse, si ?

Pye.

Very needfull; if you were in private once.

Wid.

Needfull? Brother, pray leave us; and you sir.

Frail.

I should laugh now, if this blunt fellow should put'em all beside the stirrop, and vault into the saddle himself, I have seen as mad a trick.

Wid.

Now Sir?—here's none but wee—Daughters forbear.

Pye.

O no, pray let'em stay, for what I have to speak importeth equally to them as you?

Wid.

Then you may stay.

Pye.
I pray bestow on me a serious ear,
For what I speak is full of weight and fear.

Wid.
Fear?

Pye.
I, if't passe unregarded, and uneffected,
Else peace and joy:—I pray Attention.

Widow, I have been a meer stranger for these parts that you live in, nor did I ever know the Husband of you, and Father of them, but I truly know by certain spiritual Intelligence, that he is in Purgatory.

Wid.

Purgatory? tuh; that word deserves to be spit upon; I wonder that a man of sober tongue, as you seem to be, should have the folly to believe there's such a place.

Pye.

Well Lady, in cold bloud I speak it, I assure you that there is a Purgatory, in which place I know your husband to recide, and wherein he is like to remain, till the dissolution of the world, till the last general Bon-fire: when all the earth shall melt into nothing, and the Seas scald their finny labourers: so long is his abidance, unlesse you alter the property of your purpose, together with each of your Daughters theirs, that is, the purpose of single life in your self and your eldest Daughter, and the speedy determination of marriage in your youngest.

Moll.

How knows he that, what, has some Devil told him?

Wid.
Strange he should know our thoughts:—
Why but Daughter, have you purpos'd speedy Marriage?

Pye.

You see she tells you I, she sayes nothing. Nay, give me credit as you please, I am a stranger to you, and yet you see I know your determinations, which must come to me metaphisically, and by a super-natural intelligence.

Wid.

This puts amazement on me.

Frank.

Know our secrets?

Mol.

I'de thought to steal a marriage, would his tongue Had dropt out when he blab'd it.

Wid.

But sir, my husband was too honest a dealing man, to be now in any Purgatories—

Pye.
O do not load your conscience with untruths,
'Tis but meer folly now to gild'em ore:
That has past but for Copper; Praises here,
Cannot unbind him there: confesse but truth,
I know he got his wealth with a hard gripe:
Oh hardly, hardly.

Wid.
This is most strange of all, how knows he that?

Pye.
He would eat fools and ignorant heirs clean up;
And had his drink from many a poor mans brow,
Even as their labour brew'd it.
He would scrape riches to him most unjustly;
The very dirt between his nails was ill got
And not his own,—oh

I groan to speak on't, the thought makes me shudder!— shudder!

Wid.

It quakes me too, now I think on't—sir, I am much griev'd, that you a stranger, should so deeply wrong my dead husband!

Pye-board.

Oh?

Wid.

A man that would keep Church so duly; rise early before his servants, and e'en for Religious hast, go ungarter'd, unbutton'd, nay sir Reverence untrust, to Morning Prayer?

Pye.

Oh uff.

Wid.

Dine quickly upon high-dayes, and when I had great guesse, would e'en shame me, and rise from the Table, to get a good seat at an after-noon Sermon.

Pye.

There's the devil, there's the devil, true, he thought it Sanctity enough, if he had kill'd a man, so t'ad bin done in a Pue, or undone his Neighbour, so t'ad bin

near enough to th' Preacher, Oh!—a Sermon's a fine short Cloak of an hour long, and will hide the upper part of a dissembler,—Church, I, he seem'd all Church, and his conscience was as hard as the Pulpit.

Wid.
I can no more endure this.

Pye.
Nor I, Widow,
Endure to flatter.

Wid.
Is this all your business with me?

Pye.
No, Lady, 'tis but the induction to't,
You may believe my strains, I strike all true.

And if your conscience would leap up to your tongue, your self would affirm it, and that you shall perceive I know of things to come, as well as I do of what is present; a Brother of your husband's shall shortly have a loss.

Wid.

A loss? marry Heaven forfend, Sir Godfrey, my Brother!

Pye.

Nay, keep in your wonders, 'till I have told you the fortunes of you all; which are more fearfull, if not happily prevented,—for your part and you: Daughters, if there be not once this day some bloud-shed before your door, whereof the humane creature dyes, of you two the elder shall run mad.

Mother & Frank.

Oh!

Mol.

That's not I yet.

Pye.

And with most impudent prostitution, show your naked Bodies to the view of all beholders.

Wid.

Our naked Bodies? fie for shame.

Pye.

Attend me, and your younger Daughter be strucken dumb.

Mol.

Dumb? out alas; 'tis the worst pain of all for a Woman, I'de rather be mad, or run naked, or any thing: dumb?

Pye.

Give ear: ere the evening fall upon Hill, Bog, and Meadow, this my speech shall have past probation, and then shall I be believed accordingly.

Widow.

If this be true, we are all sham'd, all undone.

Mol.

Dumb? I'le speak as much as ever I can possible before evening.

Pye.

But if it so come to pass (as for your fair sakes I wish it may) that this presage of your strange fortunes be prevented by that accident of death and bloud-shedding, which I before told you of; take heed upon your lives, that two of you which have vow'd never to marry, seek out Husbands with all present speed, and you the third, that have such a desire to outstrip Chastity, look you meddle not with a Husband.

Moll.

A double Torment.

Pye.

The breach of this keeps your Father in Purgatory, and the punishments that shall follow you in this world, would with horrour kill the ear should hear 'em related.

Wid.

Marry? why I vow'd never to marry.

Frank.

And so did I.

Moll.

And I vow'd never to be such an Ass, but to marry: what a cross Fortune's this?

Pye.

Ladies, though I be a Fortune-teller, I cannot better Fortunes, you have'em from me as they are revealed to me: I would they were to your tempers, and fellows with your blouds, that's all the bitterness I would you.

Widow.

Oh! 'tis a just vengeance, for my Husband's hard purchases.

Pye.

I wish you to bethink your selves, and leave'em.

Wid.

I'le to Sir Godfrey my Brother, and acquaint him with these fearfull presages.

Frank.
For, Mother, they portend losses to him.

Wid.
Oh I, they do, they do;
If any happy issue crown thy words,
I will reward thy cunning.

Pye.
'Tis enough, Lady,
I wish no higher. Exit.

Moll.
Dumb? and not Marry? worse,
Neither to speak, nor kiss, a double curse. Exit.

Pye.

So, all this comes well about yet, I play the Fortune-teller, as well as if I had had a Witch to my Grannam: for by good happinesse, being in my Hostesses Garden, which neighbours the Orchard of the Widow, I laid the hole of mine ear to a hole in the wall, and heard 'em make these Vowes, and speak those words, upon which I wrought these advantages; and to encourage my forgerie the more, I may now perceive in 'em a natural simplicitie which will easily swallow an abuse, if any covering be over it: and to confirm my former presage to the Widow, I have advis'd old Peter Skirmish the Souldier, to hurt Corporal Oath upon the Leg, and in that hurry, I'le rush amongst'em, and in stead of giving the Corporal some Cordial to comfort him, I'le pour into his mouth a potion of a sleepy nature, and make him seem as dead; for the which the old Souldier being apprehended, and ready to be borne to execution, I'le step in, and take upon me the cure of the dead man, upon pain of dying the condemned's death: the Corporal will wake at his minute, when the sleepy force hath wrought it self, and so shall I get my self into a most admired opinion, and under the pretext of that cunning, beguile as I see occasion: and if that foolish Nicholas Saint Tantlings keep true time with the Chain, my plot will be sound, the Captain delivered, and my wits applauded among Schollars and Souldiers for ever.

Nic.

Oh, I have found an excellent advantage to take away the Chain, my Master put it off e'en now, to say on a new Doublet, and I sneakt it away by little and little, most Puritanically? we shall have good sport anon when has mist it, about my Cousin the Conjurer; the world shall see I'me an honest man of my word, for now I'me going to hang it between Heaven and Earth among the Rosemary branches.