Neece. 'Lass, 'tis her part, she knows her place so well yonder;
Alwayes when Women jumpe upon threescore,
Love shoves e'm from the chamber to the door.
Cun. Thou art a precious she-wit. [Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scæna Prima.
Enter Cunningame (at one door) Witty-Pate, Ruinous, L. Ruinous, and Priscian (at the other.)
Cun.
Friend, met in the harvest of our designs,
Not a thought but's busie.
Wit. I knew it Man,
And that made me provide these needful Reapers,
Hooks, Rakers, Gleaners; we'll sing it home
With a melodious Horne-pipe; this is the Bond,
That as we further in your great affair,
You'l suffer us to glean, pick up for crums,
And if we snatch a handful from the sheaf,
You will not look a churle on's.
Cun. Friend, we'll share
The sheaves of gold, only the Love Aker
Shall be peculiar.
Wit. Much good do you, Sir,
Away, you know your way, and your stay; get you
The Musick ready, while we prepare the dancers.
Ruin. We are a consort of our selves.