_Wid_. Nor I neither Sir.
_Mor_. Yet thus far by your favour Widow, 'tis tuffe.
_Wid_. And therefore not for my dyet, for I love a tender one.
_Mor_. Sweet Widow leave your frumps, and be edified: you know my state, I
sell no Perspectives, Scarfs, Gloves, nor Hangers, nor put my trust in
Shoe-ties; and where your Husband in an age was rising by burnt figs,
dreg'd with meal and powdered sugar, saunders, and grains, wormeseed and
rotten Raisins, and such vile Tobacco, that made the footmen mangie; I in
a year have put up hundreds inclos'd, my Widow, those pleasant Meadows, by
a forfeit morgage: for which the poor Knight takes a lone chamber, owes
for his Ale, and dare not beat his Hostess: nay more--
_Wid_. Good Sir no more, what ere my Husband was, I know what I am, and if
you marry me, you must bear it bravely off Sir.
_Mor_. Not with the head, sweet Widow.
_Wid_. No sweet Sir, but with your shoulders: I must have you dub'd, for
under that I will not stoop a feather. My husband was a fellow lov'd to
toyle, fed ill, made gain his exercise, and so grew costive, which for
that I was his wife, I gave way to, and spun mine own smocks course, and
sir, so little: but let that pass, time, that wears all things out, wore
out this husband, who in penitence of such fruitless five years marriage,
left me great with his wealth, which if you'le be a worthie gossip to, be
knighted Sir.
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