I was a Christian fool then: Do you remember what a dance you led
me? how I grew qualm'd in love, and was a dunce? could expound but once a
quarter, and then was out too: and then out of the stinking stir you put
me in, I prayed for my own issue. You do remember all this?
_Abig_. O be as then you were!
_Rog_. I thank you for it, surely I will be wiser _Abigal_: and as the
Ethnick Poet sings, I will not lose my oyl and labour too. Y'are for the
worshipfull I take it _Abigal_.
_Abig_. O take it so, and then I am for thee!
_Rog_. I like these tears well, and this humbling also, they are Symptomes
of contrition. If I should fall into my fit again, would you not shake me
into a quotidian Coxcombe? Would you not use me scurvily again, and give
me possets with purging Confets in't? I tell thee Gentlewoman, thou hast
been harder to me, than a long pedigree.
_Abig_. O Curate cure me: I will love thee better, dearer, longer: I will
do any thing, betray the secrets of the main house-hold to thy
reformation. My Ladie shall look lovingly on thy learning, and when true
time shall point thee for a Parson, I will convert thy egges to penny
custards, and thy tith goose shall graze and multiply.
_Rog_. I am mollified, as well shall testifie this faithfull kiss, and
have a great care Mistris _Abigal_ how you depress the Spirit any more
with your rebukes and mocks: for certainly the edge of such a follie cuts
it self.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73