A [Chair and a Table]. Enter Sir Credulous in a riding habit. Curry his Groom carrying a Portmantle.
Lod. Yes—’tis the Right Worshipful, I’ll to my Mother with the News. Ex. Lod.
Sir Cred. Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like some body before I see the Ladies—Curry, thou shalt e’en remove [now, Curry, from] Groom to Footman; for I’ll ne’er keep Horse more, no, nor Mare neither, since my poor Gillian’s departed this Life.
Cur. ’Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev’d enough for your Mare in all Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more.
Sir Cred. Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses.
Cur. Nay, to say truth, Sir, ’twas a good-natur’d civil beast, and so she remain’d to her last gasp, for she cou’d never have left this World in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey’s End.
Sir Cred. A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest thou, to die at [Branford], when had she liv’d till to morrow, she had been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to marry and live in Town, I’ll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think she e’en died for grief I wou’d have sold her.
Cur. ’Twas unlucky to refuse Parson [Cuffet’s] Wife’s Money for her, Sir.
Sir Cred. Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be nameless which she offer’d me, and which wou’d have given me good luck in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that’s truth on’t.
Cur. Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all Mortal as the saying is.