kitchen, and make a Jack of thee, instead of a John. (There I am again la!) Win, good morrow, Win. I marry, Win. Now you look finely indeed, Win! this cap does convince! you'd not ha' worn it, Win, nor ha' had it velvet, but a rough country bever, with a copper band, like the coney-skin-woman of BudgeRow? fweet Win, let me kifs it and her fine high fhoes, like the Spanish lady! good Win, go a little, I would fain see thee pace, pretty Win! by this fine cap, I could never leave kiffing on't.

Win. Come indeed la, you are fuch a fool ftill!

Litt. No, but half a one, Win, you are the t'other half: man and wife make one fool, Win. (Good!) Is there the proctor, or doctor indeed, i' the diocese, that ever had the fortune to win him fuch a Win! (There I am again!) I do feel conceits coming upon me, more than I am able to turn tongue to. A pox o' these pretenders to wit! your Three Cranes, Mitre and Mermaid-men! not a corn of true falt, not a grain of right muftard amongst them all. They may ftand for places, or fo, again the next wit fall, and pay two pence in a quart more for their canary than other men. But gi' me the man can start up a justice of wit out of fix fhillings beer, and give the law to all the poets and poet-fuckers i' town, because they are the players goffips. 'Slid, other men have wives as fine as the players, and as well dreft. Come hither, Win.

SCENE II.

Win-wife, Little-wit, Win.

Win-w. Why, how now, mafter Little-wit! meafuring of lips? or molding of kiffes? which is it?

Litt, Troth, I am a little taken with my Win's dreffing here! does't not fine, mafter Win-wife? how do you apprehend, fir? fhe would not ha' worn this habit.

I chal

I challenge all Cheapfide to fhew fuch another: Moorfields, Pimlico-path, or the Exchange, in a fummerevening, with a lace to boot, as this has. Dear Win, let master Win-wife kifs you, He comes a wooing to our mother, Win, and may be our father perhaps, Win. There's no harm in him, Win.

Win-w. None i' the earth, mafter Little-wit.
Litt. I envy no man my delicates, fir.

Win-w. Alas, you ha' the garden where they grow ftill! A wife here with a ftrawberry-breath, cherrylips, apricot-cheeks, and a foft velvet head, like a Melicotton.

Litt. Good, i'faith! now dulnefs upon me, that I had not that before him, that I should not light on't as well as he velvet head!

Win-w. But my tafte, mafter Little-wit, tends to fruit of a latter kind: the fober matron, your wife's mother.

Litt. I! we know you are a fuitor, fir; Win, and I, both wish you well: by this licence here would you had her, that your two names were as faft in it as here are a couple. Win would fain have a fine young father i' law, with a feather: that her mother might hood it, and chain it, with mistress Overdo. But you do not take the right courfe, mafter Win-wife.

Win-w. No? mafter Little-wit, why?
Lit. You are not mad enough.

Win-w. How? is madnefs a right courfe?

Lit. I fay nothing, but I wink upon Win. You have a friend (one mafter Quarlous) comes here fometimes. Win-w. Why? he makes no love to her, does he? Lit. Not a tokenworth that ever I faw, I assure you: but

Win-w. What?

Lit. He is the more mad cap o' the two. You do not apprehend me.

Win. You have a hot coal i' your mouth now, you cannot hold.

Lit. Let me out with it, dear Win.

Win. I'll tell him my self.

Lit. Do, and take all the thanks, and much good do thy pretty heart, Win.

Win. Sir, my mother has had her nativity-water caft lately by the cunning-men in Cow-lane, and they ha' told her her fortune, and do enfure her, she shall never have happy hour, unless fhe marry within this fen'night; and when it is, it must be a mad-man, they fay.

Lit. I, but it must be a gentleman mad-man.

Win. Yes, fo the t'other man of Moor-fields fays. Win-w. But do's fhe believe 'em?

Lit. Yes, and has been at Bedlam twice fince every day, to inquire if any gentleman be there, or to come there mad!

Win-w. Why, this is a confederacy, a mere piece of practice upon her by these impoftors.

Lit. I tell her fo; or elfe, fay I, that they mean fome young madcap-gentleman, (for the devil can equivocate as well as a shop-keeper) and therefore would I advise you to be a little madder than master Quarlous hereafter.

Win-w. Where is fhe? ftirring yet?

Lit. Stirring! yes, and ftudying an old elder come from Banbury, a fuitor that puts in here at meal-tide, to praise the painful brethren, or pray that the fweet fingers may be reftor'd; fays a grace as long as his breath lafts him! fome time the fpirit is fo ftrong with him, it gets quite out of him, and then my mother, or Win, are fain to fetch it again with Malmfey, or Aqua Cœleftis.

Win. Yes, indeed, we have fuch a tedious life with him for his diet, and his clothes too, he breaks his buttons, and cracks feams at every faying he fobs out.

Lit. He cannot abide my vocation, he fays.

Win. No, he told my mother, a proctor was a claw of the beast, and that she had little lefs than committed abomination in marrying me fo as fhe has done.

Lit. Every line (he fays) that a proctor writes, when it comes to be read in the bishop's court, is a long black hair, kemb'd out of the tail of Antichrift.

Win-w. When came this profelyte?
Job. Some three days fince.

Quarlous, Little-wit, Win, Win-wife.

Quar. O fir, ha' you ta'en foil here? It's well a man may reach you after three hours running yet! what an unmerciful companion art thou, to quit thy lodging at fuch ungentlemanly hours? none but a fcatter'd covey of fidlers, or one of these rag-rakers in dunghills, or fome marrow-bone man at most, would have been up when thou wert gone abroad, by all defcription. I pray thee what aileft thou, thou canst not fleep? haft thou thorns i' thy eye-lids, or thistles i' thy bed?

Win-w. I cannot tell it seems you had neither i' your feet, that took this pain to find me.

Quar. No, an' I had, all the lime-hounds o' the city should have drawn after you by the scent rather. Mr. John Little-wit! God fave you, fir. 'Twas a hot night with fome of us, laft night, John: fhall we pluck a hair o' the fame wolf to-day, proctor John?

All the LIME-HOUNDS o' the city fhould have drawn after you by the fent.] Lime-bounds are so called from their being led in a leafh, or leam, before they are fet upon the game, and sometimes they are called lymmers: this is mentioned in order to fet right a paffage in King Lear, which appears to be corrupted;

"Maftiff, grey hound, mungril grim,
"Hound or spaniel, brache, or hym."

I can find no fpecies of dogs with that denomination, so that I apprehend the laft word should be lym, an abbreviation of lymmer.

VOL. III.

Lit. Do you remember, master Quarlous, what we difcours'd on last night?

Quar. Not I, John: nothing that I either difcourfe or do, at those times I forfeit all to forgetfulness.

Lit. No, not concerning Win? look you, there fhe is, and dreft, as I told you fhe fhould be: hark you, fir, had you forgot?

Quar. By this head, I'll beware how I keep you⚫ company, John, when I am drunk, an' you have this dangerous memory! that's certain.

Lit. Why, fir?

Quar. Why? we were all a little ftain'd last night, sprinkled with a cup or two, and I agreed with proctor John here, to come and do fomewhat with Win (I know not what 'twas) to-day; and he puts me in mind on't now; he says he was coming to fetch me: before truth, if you have that fearful quality, John, to remember when you are fober, John, what you promise drunk, John; I fhall take heed of you, John. For this once I am content to wink at you; where's your wife? come hither, Win. [He kiffeth ber. Win. Why, John! do you see this, John ? look you! help me, John.

Lit. O Win, fie, what do you mean, Win? be womanly, Win, make an out-cry to your mother, Win? mafter Quarlous is an honeft gentleman, and our worshipful good friend, Win: and he is mafter Win-wife's friend too: and mafter Win-wife comes a fuitor to your mother, Win; as I told you before, Win, and may perhaps be our father, Win: they'll do you no harm, Win: they are both our worshipful good friends. Master Quarlous! you must know mafter Quarlous, Win; you must not quarrel with mafter Quarlous, Win.

Quar. No, we'll kifs again, and fall in.
Lit. Yes, do, good Win.

Win. I' faith you are a fool, John.