SCAN. What don’t I know? I know the buxom black widow in the Poultry. £800 a year jointure, and £20,000 in money. Aha! old Trap.
VAL. Say you so, i’faith? Come, we’ll remember the widow. I know whereabouts you are; come, to the widow—
TRAP. No more, indeed.
VAL. What, the widow’s health; give it him—off with it. [They drink.] A lovely girl, i’faith, black sparkling eyes, soft pouting ruby lips! Better sealing there than a bond for a million, ha?
TRAP. No, no, there’s no such thing; we’d better mind our business. You’re a wag.
VAL. No, faith, we’ll mind the widow’s business: fill again. Pretty round heaving breasts, a Barbary shape, and a jut with her bum would stir an anchoret: and the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man could but fasten his eyes to her feet as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep under her petticoats, ah! Mr. Trapland?
TRAP. Verily, give me a glass. You’re a wag,—and here’s to the widow. [Drinks.]
SCAN. He begins to chuckle; ply him close, or he’ll relapse into a dun.
SCENE VI.
[To them] Officer.