Lit. A fool-John, fhe calls me; do you mark that gentlemen? pretty Little-wit of velvet! a fool-John. Quar. She may call you an apple-John, if you use this. Win-w. Pray thee forbear, for my refpect, fomewhat. Quar. Hoy-day! how refpective you are become o' the fudden! I fear this family will turn you reformed too; pray you come about again. Becaufe fhe is in poffibility to be your daughter-in-law, and may ask you bleffing hereafter, when the courts it to Totnam to eat cream. Well, I will forbear, fir; but i' faith, would thou wouldst leave thy exercise of widow-hunting once! this drawing after an old reverend fmock by the fplay-foot: there cannot be an ancient tripe or trillibub i' the town, but thou art ftraight nofing it, and 'tis a fine occupation thou'lt confine thy felf to, when thou haft got one; fcrubbing a piece of buff, as if thou hadst the perpetuity of pannyer-ally to ftink in; or perhaps worse, currying a carkafs that thou haft bound thy felf to alive. I'll be fworn, fome of them (that thou art, or hast been a fuitor to) are fo old, as no chafte or married pleasure can ever become 'em; the honest inftrument of procreation has (forty years fince) left to belong to 'em; thou muft vifit 'em as thou wouldst do a tomb, with a torch, or three handfuls of link, flaming hot, and so thou may'st hap to make 'em feel thee, and after come to inherit according to thy inches. A fweet course for a man to waste the brand of life for, to be still raking himself a fortune in an old woman's embers; we shall ha' thee, after thou hast been but a month married to one of 'em, look like the quartan ague and the black jaundise met in a face, and walk as if thou hadft borrow'd legs of a spinner, and voice of a cricket. I would endure to hear fifteen fermons a week for her, and such coarse and loud ones, as fome of 'em muft be; I would e'en And after come to inherit according to thy INCHES.] Partes quifque fuas, ad menfuram inguinis hæres. Juv. Sat. 1. T 2 defire defire of fate, I might dwell in a drum, and take in my fuftenance with an old broken tobacco-pipe and a ftraw. Doft thou ever think to bring thine ears or stomach to the patience of a dry grace, as long as thy table-cloth? and dron'd out by thy fon here (that might be thy father) till all the meat o' thy board has forgot it was that day i' the kitchen? or to brook the noife made in a queftion of predeftination, by the good labourers and painful eaters affembled together, put to 'em by the matron your fpoufe; who moderates with a cup of wine, ever and anon, and a fentence out of Knoxe between? or the perpetual spitting before and after a fober drawn exhortation of fix hours, whose better part was the hum-ha-hum? or to hear pray'rs groan'd out over thy iron chefts, as if they were charms to break 'em? And all this for the hope of two apostle-spoons, to fuffer! and a cup to eat a cawdle in! for that will be thy legacy. She'll ha' convey'd her state safe enough from thee, an' fhe be a right widow. Win-w. Alas, I am quite off that scent now. Win-w. Put off by a brother of Banbury, one that, they fay, is come here, and governs all already. Quar. What do you call him? I knew divers of thofe Banburians when I was in Oxford. Win-w. Mafter Little-wit can tell us. Lit. Sir! good Win go in, and if master Bartholomew Cokes his man come for the licence, (the little old fellow) let him fpeak with me; what say you, gentlemen ? And all this for the hope of tro APOSTLE-SPOONS.] They were of a round bowl, with a little head at the end, and twelve in a fet ; from whence they had the name of apostle Spoons. There was anciently a certain unguent or electuary, which from the number of its ingredients was called apoftolorum. Win-w. What call you the reverend elder you told me of? your Banbury man? Lit. Rabbi Bufy, fir; he is more than an elder, he is a prophet, fir. Quar. O, I know him! a baker, is he not? Lit. He was a baker, fir, but he does dream now, and fee vifions; he has given over his trade. Quar. I remember that too; out of a fcruple he took, that (in fpic'd confcience) thofe cakes he made, were ferv'd to Bridales, May-poles, Morriffes, and such profane feasts and meetings; his christen-name is Zeal-of-the-land. Lit. Yes, fir, Zeal-of-the-land Busy. Win-w. How! what a name's there! Lit. O they have all fuch names, fir; he was witness for Win here, (they will not be call'd Godfathers) and nam'd her Win-the-fight: you thought her name had been Winnifred, did you not? Win-w. I did indeed. Lit. He would ha' thought himself a stark reprobate, if it had. Quar. I, for there was a blue-ftarch woman o' the name at the fame time. A notable hypocritical vermin it is; I know him. One that ftands upon his face, more than his faith, at all times: ever in feditious motion, and reproving for vain-glory; of a most lunatick confcience and fpleen, and affects the violence of fingularity in all he does: (he has undone a grocer here, in Newgate-market, that broke with him, trufted him with currans, as errant a zeal as he, that's by the way :) by his profeffion he will ever be i' the state of innocence though, and childhood; derides all antiquity, defies any other learning than inspiration; and what discretion foever years should afford him, it is all prevented in his original ignorance: ha' not to do with him, for he is a fellow of a most arrogant and invincible dulness, I affure you. Who is this? I 3 SCENE Wafpe, Little-wit, Win-wife, Quarlous. Waf. By your leave, gentlemen, with all my heart to you; and give you good morrow. Mafter Little-wit, my business is to you. Is this licence ready? Lit. Here I ha' it for you in my hand, master Humphrey. Waf. That's well; nay, never open or read it to me, it's labour in vain, you know. I am no clerk, I fcorn to be fav'd by my book, i' faith I'll hang first; fold it up o' your word, and gi' it me; what must you ha' for't? Lit. We'll talk of that anon, master Humphrey. Waf. Now, or not at all, good mr. Proctor, I am for no anons, I affure you. Lit. Sweet Win, bid Solomon fend me the little black box within in my study. Waf. I, quickly, good miftrefs, I pray you: for I have both eggs o' the fpit, and iron i' the fire, fay what you must have, good mr. Little-wit. Lit. Why, you know the price, mr. Numps. Waf. I know? I know nothing, I. what tell you me of knowing? (now I am in hafte) fir, I do not know, and I will not know, and I fcorn to know, and yet (now I think on't) I will, and do know as well as another; you must have a mark for your thing here, and eight-pence for the box; I could ha' fav'd twopence i' that, an I had bought it my felf; but here's fourteen fhillings for you. Good Lord! how long your little wife ftays! pray God Solomon, your clerk, be not looking i' the wrong box, mr. Proctor. Lit. Good i' faith! no, I warrant you, Solomon is wifer than fo, fir. Waf. Waf. Fie, fie, fie, by your leave, mafter Little wit, this is fcurvy, idle, foolish and abominable, with all my heart; I do not like it. Win-w. Do you hear? Jack Little-wit, what bufinefs does thy pretty head think this fellow may have, that he keeps fuch a coyl with? Quar. More than buying of ginger bread i' the cloister here, (for that we allow him) or a gilt pouch i' the fair: Lit. Mafter Quarlous, do not mistake him; he is his master's both-hands, I affure you. Quar. What? to pull on his boots a mornings, or his stockings, does he? Lit. Sir, if you have a mind to mock him, mock him foftly, and look t'other way: for if he apprehend you flout him once, he will fly at you presently: A terrible tefty old fellow, and his name is Wafpe too. Quar. Pretty infect! make much on him. Was. A plague o' this box, and the pox too, and on him that made it, and her that went for't, and all that fhould ha' fought it, fent it, or brought it! do you fee, fir! Lit. Nay, good Mr. Wafpe. Waf. Good master Hornet, turd i' your teeth, hold you your tongue: do not I know you? your father was a pothecary, and fold glifters, more than he gave, I wuffe: and turd i' your little wife's teeth too (here fhe comes) 'twill make her fpit, as fine as fhe is, for all her velvet cuftard on her head, fir. Lit. O! be civil, mafter Numps. Waf. Why, fay I have a humour not to be civil; how then? who fhall compel me? you? Lit. Here is the box now. Waf. Why, a pox o' your box, once again: let your little wife ftale in it, and fhe will. Sir, I would have |