SERVANT.
May it please you, Sir, my Lord is newly lighted from his
Coach.
MUCK.
Is my Lord come already? His honor’s early.
You see he loves me well: up before seven!
Trust me, I have found his night capt at eleven.
There’s good hope yet; come, I’ll relate all to him.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. A street; a church appearing.
[Enter the two Bridegrooms, Captain and Scholar; after them,
Sir Godfrey and Edmond, Widdow changed in apparel, Mistress
Frances led between two Knights, Sir John Pennydub and Moll:
there meets them a Noble man, Sir Oliver Muckhill, and Sir
Andrew Tipstaff.]
NOBLE.
By your leave, Lady.
WIDOW.
My Lord, your honour is most chastely welcome.
NOBLE. Madam, tho I came now from court, I come now from court, I come not to flatter you: upon whom can I justly cast this blot, but upon your own forehead, that know not ink from milk? such is the blind besotting in the state of an unheaded woman that’s a widdow. For it is the property of all you that are widdowes (a hand full excepted) to hate those that honestly and carefully love you, to the maintenance of credit, state, and posterity, and strongly to dote on those, that only love you to undo you: who regard you least are best regarded, who hate you most are best beloved. And if there be but one man amongst ten thousand millions of men that is accurst, disastrous, and evilly planeted, whom Fortune beats most, whom God hates most, and all Societies esteem least, that man is sure to be a husband.—Such is the peevish Moon that rules your bloods. An Impudent fellow best woes you, a flattering lip best wins you, or in a mirth who talks roughliest is most sweetest; nor can you distinguish truth from forgeries, mists from Simplicity: witness those two deceitful monsters that you have entertaind for bride-grooms.
WIDOW.
Deceitful!
PYE.
All will out.