Taf. Your supper, sir, was light;
But I hope you think you're welcome.
Jus. Tut. I do.
A light supper; quoth you? pray God it be,
Pray God I carry it cleanly, I am sure it lies
As heavy in my belly as molt lead;
Yet I'll go see my sister Sommerfield.
Oliver. So late, good Justice?
Jus. Tut. Aye, even so late.
Night is the mother of wit, as you may see
By poets or rather constables
In their examinations at midnight.
We'll lie together without marrying,
Save the curate's fees[398] and the parish a labour;
'Tis a thriving course.
Oliver. That may not be,
For excommunications then will flee.
Jus. Tut. That's true, they fly indeed like wild geese
In flocks, one in the breech of another;
But the best is, a small matter stays them.
And so farewell.
Oliver. Farewell, good Justice Tutchin.
[Exit Justice Tutchin.
Alas, good gentleman, his brains are crazed,
But let that pass. Speak, widow, is't a match?
Shall we clap it up?
Adri. Nay, if't come to clapping,
Good night, i' faith. Mistress, look before you,
There's nothing more dangerous to maid or widow
Than sudden clappings-up; nothing hath spoiled
So many proper ladies as clappings-up.
Your shittle-cock, striding from tables to ground,
Only to try the strength of the back:
Your riding a hunting—ay, though they fall
With their heels upward, and lay as if
They were taking the height of some high star
With a cross-staff; no, nor your jumblings
In horselitters, coaches or carouches[399],
Have spoiled so many women as clappings-up.