Act. 4. Scaen. 2.
Hei! the Sisters are ravisht, and we have holy kisses enough. I shall be as great among 'um as—Who's there? What, your Spouse, Pury?
She looks like Niobe on the moun∣tains top.
That Niobe, Dogrel, you have us'd worse then Phoebus did. Not a dog looks melancholy, but he's compar'd to Niobe. He beat a villanous Tapster t'other day, to make him look like Niobe.
Why 'faith that 's pretty odde, like one o' mine.
O, Sir, had you the vertuous impu∣dence to slander a poor maid thus?
Poor enough now indeed. I will not marry thee: thy portion was a condition of the Contract. I'll sooner marry a woman that sells Orenges with a face like Belins∣gate.
I scorn thee—I contracted to thee?
Wert not? Answer.
No, by heaven.
Bear witness, Gentlemen; these words are Ca•duus benedictus to me.
And what will you do now, fair Gammer Lucia, you that contemn'd the Co∣lonel? Will you knit for your living?
Or else weed gardens for six pence a day and bread.
This is unheard-of rudeness.
Nay let me ha' mine too; I ha' got a pat one for her. Or else turn Apple-wo∣man, live in a stall, and sell pippins for eight a peny.
What think ye, Gentlemen? she'll make a pretty Landress.
A Landress? hang her, she looks like a foul handkercher.
Pray let me go; I ha' business re∣quires me.
What? you're to meet some Gen∣tlemen? How is't? twelve pence a time, I warrant, in these cloathes.
Where do you set up? Nay, we are true strikers. What, is't in Covent-garden?
Or do you renew the decay'd credit of Turnbal-street?
Or honour the Mill-bank at West∣minster.
Or flee to Wapping, and engross the Sailors.
Or Moor-fields, and sell cakes.
Are all barbarous here?
Nay tell's; we shall be customers.
Enough, enough; give her a clap o'the breech, and let her go.
Well, fare thee well, girl; we shall finde you at the Play house i' the six-peny-room sometimes.
And d'ye hear, Lucia, Keep your self wholesome: your tub's a terrible thing.
Ha, ha, ha.
A pretty Scene i'faith. Now for the Captain; he'll entertain us like forraign Princes: we'll drink this half-yeer with him before we eat or sleep.
I'll drink like Gog-Magog himself, or the Spanish Tinker on a holy-day.
Leave your verses, Dogrel. I hate your verses, Dogrel, till I be drunk. 'Tis a glori∣ous Captain.
As free as Free-town in Germany▪ Here comes Ieronymo.