Widow. Why, one I have absolute power over, the other's at large: your servant-lovers are those who take mistresses upon trial, and scarce give them a quarter's warning before they are gone.

Pleasant. Why, what do you subject-lovers do?—I am so sleepy.

Widow. Do! All things for nothing: then, they are the diligentest and the humblest things a woman can employ; nay, I ha' seen of them tame, and run loose about a house. I had one once, by this light, he would fetch and carry, go back, seek out; he would do any thing I think some falconer bred him.

Pleasant. By my troth I am of your mind.

Widow. He would come over for all my friends; but it was the dogged'st thing to my enemies; he would sit upon's tail before them, and frown like John-a-Napes when the pope is named. He heard me once praise my little spaniel bitch Smut for waiting, and hang me if I stirr'd for seven years after, but I found him lying at my door.

Pleasant. And what became of him?

Widow. Faith, when I married he forsook me. I was advis'd since, that if I would ha' spit in's mouth sometimes, he would have stay'd.

way;

one of the

Pleasant. That was cheap, but 'tis no certain for 'tis a general opinion, that marriage is one certain'st cures for love that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if you were to live about this town still, such a fool would do you world of service: I'm sure Secret will miss him, he would always take such a care of her, h'as saved her a hundred opias bl,mud walks for hoods and masks.

Widow."Yes, and I was certain of the earliest fruits and flowers that the spring afforded.

Pleasant. By my troth 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few crumbs of your affections would have satisfied him, poor thing!

Widow. Thou art in the right. In this town there's no living without 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing, than a pair of those what-d'ye-call-'ems,"

those he-waiting-women, beasts, that custom imposes upon ladies.

Pleasant. Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'd fain get a tame one to carry down into the country.

Widow. Faith, I know but one breed of them about the town that's right, and that's at the court. the lady that has them, brings 'em up all by hand: she breeds some of them from very puppies: there's another wit too in the town that has of them; but her's will not do so many tricks; good sullen diligent waiters those are which she breeds, but not half so serviceable.

Pleasant. How does she do it? is there not a trick in't?

Widow. Only patience; but she has a heavy hand with'em (they say) at first, and many of them miscarry; she governs them with signs, and by the eye, as Banks breeds his horse 29. There are some too that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for they commonly betake themselves to poetry: and if you could light on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of him ill, and praising his verses sometimes, and you are sure of him for ever.

Pleasant. But do they never grow surly, aunt?

29 As Banks breeds his horse.] Banks, who was famous for a horse, which was taught to shew tricks, and perform several feats of art, to the great admiration of the virtuoso spectator. This celebrated horse is mentioned by several writers of Queen Elizabeth's time, as Ben Jonson, in Every Man out of his Humour, A. 4. S. 6. "He keeps more ado with this monster than ever Panks did with "his horse, or the fellow with the elephant."

Jack Drum's Entertainment, Sign. B. 3.

It shall be chronicled next after the death of Bankes his horse.”
Dekker's Satiromastix.

I'll teach thee to turn me into Bankes his horse, and to tell gen"tlemen, I am a juggler and can shew tricks."

Dekker's Wonderfull Yeare, 1603.

These are those ranck riders of art, that have so spur gal'd your lustie wing'd Pegasus, that now he begins to be out of flesh, and (even only for provander sake) is glad to shew tricks like Bankes his curtall."

See Digby on Bodies, c. 37. p. 393. Sir Walter Raleigh's History of the World, 1st part. p. 178. Guyton's notes on Don Qu

p. 4. p. 289.

Widow. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.

Pleasant. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer into the country: pray let's enquire for one, either a he-one to entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.

Widow. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroy'd 'em, and the Platonick humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cow'd the ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows, with implacable stomach and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them as mnch as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I think I know one she-lover, but she is smitten in years o'th' wrong side of forty; I am certain she is poor too, and, in this lean age, for courtiers, she perhaps would be glad to run this summer in our park.

Pleasant. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she good tales, think you of knights, such as have been false or true to love, no matter which?

Widow. She cannot want cause to curse the sex: handsome, witty, well-born, and poor, in court cannot want the experience how false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a dazzling power.

Pleasant. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoarse with flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

Widow. Penthesilea, nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of, yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds, and with her honour, still preserv'd her freedom. My brother lov'd her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her language;

an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a mind chaste as Diana, but not so rough; never uncivilly cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant passion : her maxim was, he that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company, but not a better lover than a silent man; thns all passions found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But. alas, niece, this was (which is a sad word) was handsome, and was beloved, are abhorr'd sounds in women's ears.

?

[The fidlers play again. Pleasant. Hark, the fidlers are merry still. Will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you Fidlers. God give you joy, Mr. Careless! God give your ladyship joy, my lady Wild!

Widow. What did the fellows say, God give me joy? Pleasant. As I live, I think so.

Fidlers. God give you joy, Mrs. Pleasant Wild! Widow. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.

Pleasant. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mrs. Wild? I shall pay dear for a night's lodging, if that be so; especially lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery a foot.

[All the company confused without, and bid God give them joy.

Jolly. Rise, rise, for shame, the year's afore you.

Captain. Why, Ned Wild, why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in? What is it not enough to steal your wedding over-night, but lock yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for points here, and kisses from the brides.

us

?

Wild. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress
[The women squeak when they speak.
Careless. Why, what's o'clock, Captain?
Captain. It's late.

Careless. Faith, so it was before we slept.
Widow. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness?
As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.

Wild. No, as I live aunt, we are in earnest: but my

565 part lies here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you: [they catch the women in their arms] and, sweet Mrs. Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see, naked, and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that past by, and gave us joy this morning.

Pleasant. Joy! of what? what do

you mean ? Careless. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to call me husband, but I am resolv'd to call you wife, and such proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied. [Careless kisses the Widow. Widow. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make it good-You will not be uncivil?

Careless. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but we have laid we will force your mind...

Wild. But that needs not; for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time, and woo'd hard, this would have come o'c course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defied us. Widow. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.

Careless. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten jointures should have made me marry..

Widow. This is a new way of wooing.

Careless. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly (though it were sudden) to leave it in any body's power, but our own to hinder it.

Pleasant. Do you think SO ?

Wild We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.

Careless. Yet submit in the midst of our strength, We and beg you will not wilfully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By t this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year between the town, and the country-What say you, is't a match?

VOL. XI.

H II