Mrs. Lit. I’ll tell him myself.
Lit. Do, and take all the thanks, and much good do thy pretty heart, Win.
Mrs. Lit. Sir, my mother has had her nativity-water cast lately by the cunning-men in Cow-lane, and they have told her her fortune, and do ensure her, she shall never have happy hour, unless she marry within this sen’night; and when it is, it must be a madman, they say.
Lit. Ay, but it must be a gentleman madman.
Mrs. Lit. Yes, so the t’other man of Moorfields says.
Winw. But does she believe them?
Lit. Yes, and has been at Bedlam twice since every day, to inquire if any gentleman be there, or to come there mad.
Winw. Why, this is a confederacy, a mere piece of practice upon her by these impostors.
Lit. I tell her so; or else, say I, that they mean some young madcap gentleman; for the devil can equivocate as well as a shop keeper: and therefore would I advise you to be a little madder than master Quarlous hereafter.