[Exeunt mother and Frances.]
MOLL. Here’s a pulling, indeed! I think my Mother weeps for all the women that ever buried husbands; for if from time to time all the Widowers’ tears in England had been bottled up, I do not think all would have filled a three-half-penny Bottle. Alas, a small matter bucks a hand-kercher,—and sometimes the spittle stands to nie Saint Thomas a Watrings. Well, I can mourn in good sober sort as well as another; but where I spend one tear for a dead Father, I could give twenty kisses for a quick husband.
[Exit Moll.]
SIR GODFREY. Well, go thy ways, old Sir Godfrey, and thou mayest be proud on’t, thou hast a kind loving sister-in-law; how constant! how passionate! how full of April the poor soul’s eyes are! Well, I would my Brother knew on’t, he would then know what a kind wife he had left behind him: truth, and twere not for shame that the Neighbours at th’ next garden should hear me, between joy and grief I should e’en cry out-right!
[Exit Sir Godfrey.]
EDMOND. So, a fair riddance! My father’s laid in dust; his Coffin and he is like a whole-meat-pye, and the worms will cut him up shortly. Farewell, old Dad, farewell. I’ll be curb’d in no more. I perceived a son and heir may quickly be made a fool, and he will be one, but I’ll take another order.—Now she would have me weep for him, for-sooth, and why? because he cozn’d the right heir, being a fool, and bestow’d those Lands upon me his eldest Son; and therefore I must weep for him, ha, ha. Why, all the world knows, as long as twas his pleasure to get me, twas his duty to get for me: I know the law in that point; no Attorney can gull me. Well, my Uncle is an old Ass, and an Admirable Cockscomb. I’ll rule the Roast my self. I’ll be kept under no more; I know what I may do well enough by my Father’s Copy: the Law’s in mine own hands now: nay, now I know my strength, I’ll be strong enough for my Mother, I warrant you.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. A street.
[Enter George Pye-board, a scholar and a Citizen, and unto him an old soldier, Peter Skirmish.]
PYE. What’s to be done now, old Lad of War? thou that wert wont to be as hot as a turn-spit, as nimble as a fencer, and as lousy as a school-master; now thou art put to silence like a Sectary.—War sits now like a Justice of peace, and does nothing. Where be your Muskets, Caleiuers and Hotshots? in Long-lane, at Pawn, at Pawn.—Now keys are your only Guns, Key-guns, Key-guns, and Bawds the Gunners, who are your Sentinels in peace, and stand ready charg’d to give warning, with hems, hums, and pockey-coffs; only your Chambers are licenc’st to play upon you, and Drabs enow to give fire to ’em.