Part 5 (1/2)

_Rog_. Reproving him at Tra-trip Sir, for swearing; you have the total surely.

_Wel_. You told him when his rage was set a tilt, and so he crackt your Canons. I hope he has not hurt your gentle reading: But shall we see these Gentlewomen to night.

_Rog_. Have patience Sir until our fellow _Nicholas_ be deceast, that is, asleep: for so the word is taken: to sleep to dye, to dye to sleep, a very figure Sir.

_Wel_. Cannot you cast another for the Gentlewomen?

_Rog_. Not till the man be in his bed, his grave: his grave, his bed: the very same again Sir. Our Comick Poet gives the reason sweetly; _Plenus rimarum est_, he is full of loope-holes, and will discover to our Patroness.

_Wel_. Your comment Sir has made me understand you.

_Enter_ Martha _the_ Ladies _Sister_, _and_ Younglove, _to them with a Posset_.

_Rog_. Sir be addrest, the graces do salute you with the full bowl of plenty. Is our old enemy entomb'd?

_Abig_. He's safe.

_Rog_. And does he snore out supinely with the Poet?

_Mar_. No, he out-snores the Poet.

_Wel_. Gentlewoman, this courtesie shall bind a stranger to you, ever your servant.

_Mar_. Sir, my Sisters strictness makes not us forget you are a stranger and a Gentleman.

_Abig_. In sooth Sir, were I chang'd into my Lady, a Gentleman so well indued with parts, should not be lost.

_Wel_. I thank you Gentlewoman, and rest bound to you. See how this foul familiar chewes the Cud: From thee, and three and fifty good Love deliver me.

_Mar_. Will you sit down Sir, and take a spoon?

_Wel_. I take it kindly, Lady.

_Mar_. It is our best banquet Sir.

_Rog_. Shall we give thanks?

_Wel_. I have to the Gentlewomen already Sir.

_Mar_. Good Sir _Roger_, keep that breath to cool your part o'th' Posset, you may chance have a scalding zeal else; and you will needs be doing, pray tell your twenty to your self. Would you could like this Sir?

_Wel_. I would your Sister would like me as well Lady.

_Mar_. Sure Sir, she would not eat you: but banish that imagination; she's only wedded to her self, lyes with her self, and loves her self; and for another Husband than herself, he may knock at the gate, but ne're come in: be wise Sir, she's a Woman, and a trouble, and has her many faults, the least of which is, she cannot love you.

_Abig_. G.o.d pardon her, she'l do worse, would I were worthy his least grief, Mistris _Martha_.

_Wel_. Now I must over-hear her.

_Mar_. Faith would thou hadst them all with all my heart; I do not think they would make thee a day older.