am perswaded thou devour'st more floutsThan all thy body's worth, and still a hungred!
A mischief of that maw, prethee seek elsewhere,
Introth I am weary of abusing thee;
Get thee a fresh Mistriss, thou'st make work enough;
I do not think there's scorn enough in Town
To serve thy turn, take the Court-Ladies in,
And all their Women to 'em, that exceed 'em.
Sir Gr. Is this in earnest, Lady?
Neece. Oh unsatiable!
Dost thou count all this but an earnest yet?
I'd thought I'd paid thee all the whole sum, trust me;
Thou'lt begger my derision utterly
If thou stay'st longer, I shall want a laugh:
If I knew where to borrow a contempt
Would hold thee tack, stay and be hang'd, thou shouldst then:
But thou'st no conscience now to extort hate from me,
When one has spent all she can make upon thee;
Must I begin to pay thee hire again?
After I have rid thee twice? faith 'tis unreasonable.
Sir Gr. Say you so? I'll know that presently.
Neece. Now he runs
To fetch my Uncle to this musty bargain,
But I have better ware always at hand.
And lay by this still, when he comes to cheapen.
Cun. I met the Musick now, yet cannot learn
What entertainment he receiv'd from her.
Nee. There's some body set already, I must to't, I see,
Well, well, Sir Gregory?
Cun. Hah, Sir Gregory?
Nee. Where e'er you come, you may well boast your conquest.
Cun. She's lost y'faith, enough, has fortune then
Remembred her great boy? she seldom fails 'em.
Nee. H' was the unlikeliest man at first, methought,
To have my love, we never met but wrangled.
Cun. A pox upon that wrangling, say I still,
I never knew it fail yet, where e'er't came;
It never comes but like a storm of hail,
'Tis sure to bring fine weather at the tail on't,
There's not one match 'mongst twenty made without it,
It fights i' th' tongue, but sure to agree i' th' haunches.
Nee. That man that should ha' told me when time was.
I should ha' had him, had been laught at piteously,
But see how things will change!
Cun. Here's a heart feels it – Oh the deceitful promises of love!
What trust should a man put i' th' lip of woman?
She kist me with that strength, as if sh'ad meant
To ha' set the fair print of her soul upon me.
Nee. I would ha' sworn 'twould ne'er ha been a match once.
Cun. I'll hear no more, I'm mad to hear so much,
Why should I aim my thoughts at better fortunes
Than younger brothers have? that's a Maid with nothing,
Or some old Soap-boilers Widow, without Teeth,
There waits my fortune for me, seek no farther.
Old K. You tell me things, Sir Gregory, that cannot be.
She will not, nor she dares not.
Sir Gr. Would I were whipt then.
Nee. I'll make as little shew of love, Sir Gregory,
As ever Woman did, you shall not know
You have my heart a good while.
Old K. Heard you that?
Nee. Man will insult so soon, 'tis his condition,
'Tis good to keep him off as long as we can,
I've much ado, I swear; and love i' th' end
Will have his course, let Maids do what they can,
They are but frail things till they end in man.
Old K. What say you to this, Sir?
Sir Gr. This is somewhat handsome.
Nee. And by that little wrangling that I fain'd,
Now I shall try how constant his love is,
Although't went sore against my heart to chide him.
Sir Gr. Alas poor Gentlewoman.
Old K. Now y'are sure of truth,
You hear her own thoughts speak.
Sir Gr. They speak indeed.
Old K. Go, you're a brainless Coax; a Toy, a Fop,
I'll go no farther than your name, Sir Gr[egory]
I'll right my self there; were you from this place,
You should perceive I'm heartily angry with you,
Offer to sow strife 'twixt my Neece and I?
Good morrow Neece, good morrow.
Nee. Many fair ones to you, Sir.
Old K. Go, you're a Coxcomb. How dost Neece this morning?
An idle shallow fool: sleep'st thou well, Girl?
Fortune may very well provide thee Lordships,
For honesty has left thee little manners.
Sir Gr. How am I bang'd o'both sides!
Old K. Abuse kindnesse? Will't take the air to day Neece?
Nee. When you please, Sir,
There stands the Heir behind you I must take,
(Which I'd as lieve take, as take him I swear.)
Old K. La' you; do you hear't continued to your teeth now?
A pox of all such Gregories; what a hand
Have I with you!
Sir Gr. No more y'feck, I ha' done, Sir:
Lady, your Scarf's fal'n down.
Nee. 'Tis but your luck, Sir,
And does presage the Mistriss must fall shortly,
You may wear it, and you please.
Old K. There's a trick for you,
You're parlously belov'd, you should complain.
Sir Gr. Yes, when I complain, Sir,
Then do your worst,
