Mrs. Lit. No, I’ll not make me unready for it: I can be hypocrite enough, though I were never so strait-laced.
Lit. You say true, you have been bred in the family, and brought up to’t. Our mother is a most elect hypocrite, and has maintained us all this seven year with it, like gentlefolks.
Mrs. Lit. Ay, let her alone, John, she is not a wise wilful widow for nothing; nor a sanctified sister for a song. And let me alone too, I have somewhat of the mother in me, you shall see: fetch her, fetch her—[Exit Littlewit.] Ah! ah!
[Seems to swoon.
Re-enter LITTLEWIT with Dame PURECRAFT.
Pure. Now, the blaze of the beauteous discipline, fright away this evil from our house! how now, Win-the-fight, child! how do you? sweet child, speak to me.
Mrs. Lit. Yes, forsooth.
Pure. Look up, sweet Win-the-fight, and suffer not the enemy to enter you at this door, remember that your education has been with the purest: What polluted one was it, that named first the unclean beast, pig, to you, child?
Mrs. Lit. Uh, uh!