Seb. Alas, poor Lady.
Alp. To your devotions: I take no good thing from you.
Come Gentlemen; leave pitying, and moaning of her
And praising of her vertues: and her whim-whams,
It makes her proud, and sturdy.
Seb. Cur. Good hours wait on ye. [Exeunt.
Alin. I thank ye, Gentlemen: I want such comforts:
I would thank you too Father: but your cruelty
Hath almost made me senseless of my duty,
Yet still I must know: would I had known nothing.
What Poor attend my charity to day, wench?
Jul. Of all sorts, Madam; your open handed bounty
Make's 'em flock every hour: some worth your pity,
But others that have made a trade of begging.
Alin. Wench, if they ask it truly, I must give it:
It takes away the holy use of charity
To examine wants.
Jul. I would you would be merry:
A cheerful giving hand, as I think, Madam,
Requires a heart as chearful.
Alin. Alas Juletta,
What is there to be merry at? what joy now,
Unless we fool our own afflictions,
And make them shew ridiculous?
Jul. Sure, Madam,
You could not seem thus serious, if you were married,
Thus sad, and full of thoughts.
Alin. Married? to whom, wench?
Thou thinkst if there be a young handsome fellow,
As those are plentiful, our cares are quenched then.