Con. By this hand, he is in the right; and, for mine, I meant to pay when I signed. Hang it, never put good fellows to say, Prythee, give me a hundred pounds.
Sad. 'Tis true, 'tis a good janty[207] way of begging; yet, for being killed if I refuse it—would there were no more danger in the widow's unkindness than in your fighting, I would not mistrust my design.
Jolly. Why, ay, there's a point now in nicety of honour. I should kill you for her, for you know I pretended first; and it may be, if I had writ sad lines to her, and hid myself in my cloak, and haunted her coach—it may be in time she would have sought me. Not I, by this hand, I'll not trouble myself for a wench; and married widows are but customary authorised wenches.
Con. Being of that opinion, how canst thou think of marrying one?
Jolly. Why, faith, I know not: I thought to rest me, for I was run out of breath with pleasure, and grew so acquainted with sin, I would have been good, for variety: in these thoughts 'twas my fortune to meet with this widow—handsome, and of a clear fame.
Con. Didst love her?
Jolly. Yes, faith: I had love, but not to the disease that makes men sick; and I could have loved her still, but that I was angry to have her refuse me for a fault I told her of myself; so I went no more.
Sad. Did she forbid you but once?
Jolly. Faith, I think I slipped a fair opportunity: a handsome wench and three thousand pounds per annum in certainty, besides the possibility of being saved.
Con. Which now you think desperate?