Sweep. Oh, ay, a plague on ’em, there’s no ho![214] with ’em; they’re madder than March hares.
Flu. Are there no lawyers amongst you?
Sweep. Oh no, not one; never any lawyer, we dare not let a lawyer come in, for he’ll make ’em mad faster than we can recover ’em.
Duke. And how long is’t ere you recover any of these?
Sweep. Why, according to the quantity of the moon that’s got into ’em. An alderman’s son will be mad a great while, a very great while, especially if his friends left him well; a whore will hardly come to her wits again: a puritan, there’s no hope of him, unless he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’ th’ bell-ropes.
Flu. I perceive all sorts of fish come to your net.
Sweep. Yes, in truth, we have blocks[215] for all heads; we have good store of wild-oats here: for the courtier is mad at the citizen, the citizen is mad at the countryman; the shoemaker is mad at the cobbler, the cobbler at the car-man; the punk is mad that the merchant’s wife is no whore, the merchant’s wife is mad that the punk is so common a whore. Gods so, here’s Father Anselmo; pray say nothing that I tell tales out of the school. [Exit.
Re-enter Anselmo and Servants.
All. God bless you, father.
Ans. I thank you, gentlemen.