Lit. Not I, on my sincerity, mother! she longed above three hours ere she would let me know it.—Who was it, Win?
Mrs. Lit. A profane black thing with a beard, John.
Pure. O, resist it, Win-the-fight, it is the tempter, the wicked tempter, you may know it by the fleshly motion of pig; be strong against it, and its foul temptations, in these assaults, whereby it broacheth flesh and blood, as it were on the weaker side; and pray against its carnal provocations; good child, sweet child, pray.
Lit. Good mother, I pray you, that she may eat some pig, and her belly full too; and do not you cast away your own child, and perhaps one of mine, with your tale of the tempter. How do you do, Win, are you not sick?
Mrs. Lit. Yes, a great deal, John, uh, uh!
Pure. What shall we do? Call our zealous brother Busy hither, for his faithful fortification in this charge of the adversary. [Exit Littlewit.] Child, my dear child, you shall eat pig; be comforted, my sweet child.
Mrs. Lit. Ay, but in the Fair, mother.
Pure. I mean in the Fair, if it can be any way made or found lawful.—
Re-enter LITTLEWIT.
Where is our brother Busy? will he not come? Look up, child.