Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Little-wit. [To him] Win.
A Pretty Conceit, and worth the finding! I ha'
such luck to spin out these fine things still,
and like a Silk-worm, out of my self. Here's
Master Bartholomew Cokes, of Harrow o' th'
Hill, i' th' County of Middlesex, Esquire,
takes forth his Licence to marry Mistress Grace Well-born,
of the said Place and County: And when do's he take
it forth? to day! the Four and Twentieth of August!
Bartholmew-day! Bartholmew upon Bartholmew! there's
the Device! who would have mark'd such a Leap-Frog
Chance now? A very less than Ames-ace, on two Dice!
Well, go thy ways, John Little-wit, Proctor John Little-
wit: One o' the pretty Wits o' Pauls, the Little-wit of
London (so thou art call'd) and something beside. When
a Quirk or a Quiblin do's scape thee, and thou dost not
watch and apprehend it, and bring it afore the Con-
stable of Conceit: (there now, I speak Quib too) let
'em carry thee out o' the Arch-deacons Court into his
Kitchin, and make a Jack of thee, instead of a John.
(There I am again la!) Win, Good Morrow, Win. I
marry, Win! Now you look finely indeed, Win! this
Cap do's convince! you'ld not ha' worn it, Win, nor ha'
had it Velvet, but a rough Countrey Bever, with a
Copper Band, like the Conney-skin-woman of Budge-
Row? Sweet Win, let me kiss it! And her fine high
Shooes, like the Spanish Lady! Good Win, go a little, I
would fain see thee pace, pretty Win! By this fine Cap,
I could never leave kissing on't.
Win.
Come indeed la, you are such a Fool still!
Litt.
No, but half a one, Win, you are the t'other
half: Man and Wife make one Fool, Win. (Good!)
Is there the Poctor, or Doctor indeed, i' the Diocess,
that ever had the Fortune to win him such a Win!
(There I am again!) I do feel Conceits coming upon
me, more than I am able to turn Tongue too. A Pox
o' these Pretenders to Wit! Your Three Cranes, Miter
and Mermaid men! Not a Corn of true Salt, not a
Grain of right Mustard amongst them all. They may
stand for Places, or so, again the next Wit fall, and
pay Two Pence in a Quart more for their Canary
than other Men. But gi' me the Man can start up a
Justice of Wit out of Six Shillings Beer, and give the
Law to all the Poets and Poet-Suckers i' Town, because
they are the Players Gossips. 'Slid, other Men have
Wives as fine as the Players, and as well drest. Come
hither, Win.