You come o' th' nick,
For the widow's quick.
There's a witty poesy for your quick widow.
Blood. No, no; I'll have one shall savour of a saw.
Sim. Why then, 'twill smell of the painted cloth.[32]
Blood. Let me see, a widow witty——
Sim. Is pastime pretty:—put in that for the sport's sake.
Blood. No, no, I can make the sport. Then, an old man——
Sim. Then will she answer, If you cannot, a younger can.[33] And look, look, sir, now I talk of the younger, yonder's Ancient Young come over again, that mortgaged sixty pound per annum before he went; I'm deceived if he come not a day after the fair.
Blood. Mine almanac!