Wid. No, no; I have reading work enough of my own in my bag, I thank you.
Old. Ay, law, madam; but here's a poem, in blank verse, which I think a handsome declaration of one's passion.
Wid. O, if you talk of declarations, I'll show you one of the prettiest penned things, which I mended too myself, you must know.
Old. Nay, lady, if you have used yourself so much to the reading harsh law, that you hate smooth poetry, here is a character for you, of—
Wid. A character! nay, then I'll show you my bill in chancery here, that gives you such a character of my adversary, makes him as black—
Old. Pshaw! away, away, lady! But if you think the character too long, here is an epigram, not above twenty lines, upon a cruel lady, who decreed her servant should hang himself, to demonstrate his passion.
Wid. Decreed! if you talk of decreeing, I have such a decree here, drawn by the finest clerk—
Old. O lady, lady, all interruption, and no sense between us, as if we were lawyers at the bar! but I had forgot, Apollo and Littleton never lodge in a head together. If you hate verses, I'll give you a cast of my politics in prose. 'Tis "a Letter to a Friend in the Country;" which is now the way of all such sober solid persons as myself, when they have a mind to publish their disgust to the times; though perhaps, between you and I, they have no friend in the country. And sure a politic, serious person may as well have a feigned friend in the country to write to, as an idle poet a feigned mistress to write to. And so here's my letter to a friend, or no friend, in the country, concerning the late conjuncture of affairs, in relation to coffee-houses; or, "The Coffee-man's Case."
Wid. Nay, if your letter have a case in't, 'tis something; but first I'll read you a letter of mine to a friend in the country, called a letter of attorney.
Re-enter Freeman, with Jerry Blackacre in an old gaudy suit and red breeches of Freeman's.