_Abig_. God 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.
_Abig_. Sir, will you put in deeper, 'tis the sweeter.
_Mar_. Well said old sayings.
_Wel_. She looks like one indeed. Gentlewoman you keep your word, your
sweet self has made the bottom sweeter.
_Abig_. Sir, I begin a frolick, dare you change Sir?
_Wel_. My self for you, so please you. That smile has turn'd my stomach:
this is right the old Embleme of the Moyle cropping of Thistles: Lord what
a hunting head she carries, sure she has been ridden with a Martingale.
Now love deliver me.
_Rog_. Do I dream, or do I wake? surely I know not: am I rub'd off? Is
this the way of all my morning Prayers? Oh _Roger_, thou art but grass,
and woman as a flower. Did I for this consume my quarters in Meditation,
Vowes, and wooed her in _Heroical Epistles_? Did I expound the Owl, and
undertook with labour and expence the recollection of those thousand
Pieces, consum'd in Cellars, and Tabacco-shops of that our honour'd
_Englishman Ni. Br._? Have I done this, and am I done thus too? I will end
with the wise man, and say; He that holds a Woman, has an Eel by the tail.
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