Sir Gr. I'll do't by course, do you think I'm an ass, Knight?
Here's first my hand, now't goes to the Seal-Office.
Old K. Formally finisht, how goes this Suit forward?
Cun. I'm taking measure of the Widows mind, Sir,
I hope to fit her heart.
Guard. Who would have dreamt
Of a young morsel now? things come in minutes.
Sir Gr. Trust him not Widow, he's a younger brother,
He'll swear and lie; believe me he's worth nothing.
Guard. He brings more content to a woman with that nothing,
Than he that brings his thousands without any thing,
We have presidents for that amongst great Ladies.
Old K. Come, come, no language now shall be in fashion,
But your Love-phrase, the bell to procreation. [Exeunt.
Enter Sir Ruinous Gentry, Witty-pate, and Priscian.
Witty. Pox, there's nothing puts me besides my wits, but this fourth,
This last illiterate share, there's no conscience in't.
Ruin. Sir, it has ever been so, where I have practis'd, and must be.
Still where I am, nor has it been undeserv'd at the years
End, and shuffle the Almanack together, vacations and
Term-times, one with another, though I say't, my wife is a
Woman of a good spirit, then it is no lay-share.