Care. Never too soon; for now, when a stranger comes in, and spies a covey of beauties would make a falconer unhood, before he can draw his leash, he is warned that's a marked partridge; and that and every he has by their example a particular she.
Wild. By this light, the six fair maids stand like the working-days in the almanac; one with A scored upon her breast, that is as much as to say, I belong to such a lord; the next with B, for an elder brother; C, for such a knight; D, possessed with melancholy, and at her breast you may knock an hour ere you get an answer, and then she'll tell you there's no lodging there; she has a constant fellow-courtier that has taken up all her heart to his own use: in short, all are disposed of but the good mother, and she comes in like the Sabbath at the week's end; and I warrant her to make any one rest that comes at her.
Care. Ay, marry, if she were like the Jews' Sabbath, it were somewhat; but this looks like a broken commandment, that has had more work done upon her than all the week besides.
Capt. And what think you—is not this finely carried? you, that are about the king, counsel him, if he will have his sport fair, he must let the game be free, as it has been in former ages. Then a stranger that has wit, good means, and handsome clothes, no sooner enters the privy chamber, and beats about with three graceful legs,[228] but he springs a mistress that danced as well as he, sung better: as free as fair. Those at first sight could speak, for wit is always acquainted: these fools must be akin, ere they can speak. And now friends make the bargain, and they go to bed, ere they know why.
Jolly. Faith, he's in the right: you shall have a buzzard now hover and beat after a pretty wench, till she is so weary of him she's forced to take her bed for covert, and find less danger in being trussed than in flying.
Capt. And what becomes of all this pudder?[229] after he has made them sport for one night, to see him touze the quarry, he carries her into the country; and there they two fly at one another till they are weary.
Care. And all this mischief comes of love and constancy. We shall never see better days till there be an act of parliament against it, enjoining husbands not to till their wives, but change and lay them fallow.
Jolly. A pox, the women will never consent to it: they'll be tilled to death first.
Wild. Gentlemen, you are very bold with the sex.
Capt. Faith, madam, it is our care of them. Why, you see they are married at fourteen, yield a crop and a half, and then die: 'tis merely their love that destroys 'em; for if they get a good husbandman, the poor things yield their very hearts.