Quar. I remember that too; out of a scruple he took, that, in spiced conscience, those cakes he made, were served to bridals, may-poles, morrices, and such profane feasts and meetings. His christian-name is Zeal-of-the-land.
Lit. Yes, sir; Zeal-of-the-land Busy.
Winw. How! what a name’s there!
Lit. O they have all such names, sir; he was witness for Win here,—they will not be call’d godfathers—and named her Win-the-fight: you thought her name had been Winnifred, did you not?
Winw. I did indeed.
Lit. He would have thought himself a stark reprobate, if it had.
Quar. Ay, for there was a blue-starch woman of the name at the same time. A notable hypocritical vermin it is; I know him. One that stands upon his face, more than his faith, at all times: ever in seditious motion, and reproving for vainglory; of a most lunatic conscience and spleen, and affects the violence of singularity in all he does: he has undone a grocer here, in Newgate-market, that broke with him, trusted him with currants, as arrant a zeal as he, that’s by the way:—By his profession he will ever be in the state of innocence though, and childhood; derides all antiquity, defies any other learning than inspiration; and what discretion soever years should afford him, it is all prevented in his original ignorance: have not to do with him, for he is a fellow of a most arrogant and invincible dulness, I assure you.—Who is this?
Re-enter Mrs. LITTLEWIT with WASPE.
Waspe. By your leave, gentlemen, with all my heart to you; and God give you good morrow!—master Littlewit, my business is to you: is this license ready?