Playes written by the thrice noble, illustrious and excellent princess, the Lady Marchioness of Newcastle.

Scene 31.

Enter a Grave Matron, Mistris Fondly, Mistris Vanity, Mistris Trifle, and Mistris Parle?

MAtron.

Ladies, do you hear the News?

Parle.

VVhat News?

Matron.

VVhy Mistris Simple is gone very early this morning out of Town with Sir Anthony Gosling; and 'tis said they will be maried before they return.

Vanity.

I cannot believe it: for she was the most unlikely to be maried of any of us all.

Parle.

I perceive that Maid that can have Fortune to be her friend, shall not want a Husband.

Fondly.

You say true; and Fortune is a better friend than our Parents are: for our Parents are contented we should live Maids all the time of our lives, when Fortune (most commonly) gives Maids Husbands at one time or other.

Matron.

Ladies, why do you complain of your Parents for their wary care? who would not have you marry, but to such Husbands as you may be happy withall, and therefore are cautious how to chuse, when Fortune makes Matches at Random.

Fondly.

I had rather marry at Random, than not marry at all.

Matron.

Why then (perchance) in stead of a worthy person, you may marry a base fellow; and in stead of a rich husband, a beggar.

Parle.

Those women that are curious in their Choise, may chance to die old Maids.

Matron.

'Tis better to die an old Maid, than to live a miserable life, which will be, if an unhappy Wife.

Vanity.

There is no misery like being an old Maid.

She sings a piece of an old Song

O that I were so happy once to be a wedded Wife, I would fulfil my Husbands will all the days of my life.

Parle.

I doubt I may sing the Song that says,

O pity take upon me now some gentle Bodie, And give me the Willow-Branch, for no man will have me.

Trifle

And I may sing this old Song.

I wander up and down, And no body cares for me: Although I be but poor and brown, Yet constant will I be.

Fondly.

And I may sing this old Ballad.

Every Bird can choose his Mate, The Wren can do the same, The Fish and Fowl their pleasures take, They follow after Game. But I, poor I, poor silly I, Do sigh and sorrow still, Yea night and day I wear away, Wanting my wished will.

Matron.

Come, come, Ladies, you are all so desirous to marry, and so impatient because you are not maried, as I doubt when you are maried, your Husbands may sing the Song of Cuckolds all a row.

Parle.

It were better for us that our Husbands should be Cuckolds, than we lead Apes in Hell.

Exeunt.