Bel. She hath put us off, this month now, for an answer.
Hare. No man must visit her, nor look upon her, no, not say, good morrow, nor good even, till that's past.
Val. She has found what dough you are made of, and so kneads you: are you good at nothing, but these after-games? I have told you often enough what things they are, what precious things, these widows—
Hare. If we had 'em.
Val. Why the Devil has not craft enough to wooe 'em, there be three kinds of fools, mark this note Gentlemen, mark it, and understand it.
Fount. Well, go forward.
Val An Innocent, a knave fool, a fool politick: the last of which are lovers, widow lovers.
Bell. Will you allow no fortune?
Val. No such blind one.
Fount. We gave you reasons, why 'twas needful for us.