Bartholomew Fayre Act 1. Scene 2

Win-wife, Little-wit, Win.

Why, how now, Master Little-wit! measuring of
Lips? or molding of Kisses? which is it?

Litt.
Troth, I am a little taken with my Wins dres-
sing here! Dost not fine, Master Win-wife? How do
you apprehend, Sir? She would not ha' worn this Ha-
bit. I challenge all Cheapside to shew such another:
More-fields, Pimlico-path, or the Exchange, in a Summer-

Evening, with a Lace to boot, as this has. Dear Win,
let Master Win-wife kiss you. He comes a wooing to our
Mother, Win, and may be our Father perhaps, Win. There's
no harm in him, Win.

Win-w.
None i' the Earth, Master Little-wit.

Litt.
I envy no Man my Delicates, Sir.

Win-w.
Alas, you ha' the Garden where they grow
still! A Wife here with a Strawberry-Breath, Cherry-
Lips, Apricot-Cheeks, and a soft Velvet Head, like a
Melicotton.

Litt.
Good, i'faith! now dulness upon me, that I had
not that before him, that I should not light on't as well
as he! Velvet Head!

Win-w. But my taste, Master Little-wit, tend to
Fruit of a latter kind: the Sober Matron, your Wives
Mother.

Litt.
I! we know you are a Suitor, Sir; Win, and I
both, wish you well: By this Licence here would you
had her, that your Two Names were as fast in it as here
are a Couple. Win would fain have a fine Young
Father i' Law, with a Feather: that her Mother
might Hood it, and Chain it, with Mistris Over-
doe. But you do not take the right course, Master
Win-wife.

Win-w.
No? Master Little-wit, why?

Lit.
You are not mad enough.

Win-w.
How? Is Madness a right course?

Lit.
I say nothing, but I wink upon Win. You have
a Friend, one (Master Quarlous) comes here some-
times.

Win-w.
Why? he makes no Love to her, do's he?

Lit.
Not a Tokenworth that ever I saw, I assure you:
But ——

Win-w.
What?

Lit.
He is the more Mad-cap o' the Two. You do
not apprehend me.

Win.
You have a hot Coal i' your Mouth now, you
cannot hold.

Lit.
Let me out with it, dear Win.

Win.
I'll tell him my self.

Lit.
Do, and take all the Thanks, and much do good
thy pretty heart, Win.

Win.
Sir, my Mother has had her Nativity-water
cast lately by the Cunning-Men in Cow-lane, and they
ha' told her her Fortune, and do ensure her, she shall
never have happy hour, unless she marry within this
Sen'night; and when it is, it must be a Mad Man,
they say.

Lit.
I, but it must be a Gentleman-Mad Man.

Win.
Yes, so the t' other man of More-fields says.

Win-w.
But do's she believe 'em?

Lit.
Yes, and has been at Bedlam twice since evety
day, to enquire if any Gentleman be there, or to come
there mad!

Win-w.
Why, this is a Confederacy, a meer piece of
practice upon her by these Impostors.

Lit.
I tell her so; or else, say I, that they mean some
Young Madcap-Gentleman (for the Devil can equivo-
cate as well as a Shop-keeper) and therefore would I ad-
vise you to be a little madder than Master Quarlous here-
after.

Win.
Where is she? stirring yet?

Lit.
Stirring! Yes, and studying an Old Elder come
from Banbury, a Suitor that puts in here at Meal-tide, to
praise the painful Brethren, or pray that the Sweet
Singers may be restor'd; Says a Grace as long as his
Breath lasts him! Some time the Spirit is so strong with
him, it gets quite out of him, and then my Mother, or
Win, are fain to fetch it again with Malmsey, or Aqua
Cœlestis.

VVin.
Yes indeed, we have such a tedious Life
with him for his Dyet, and his Clothes too, he
breaks his Buttons, and cracks Seams at every Saying
he sobs out.

John.
He cannot abide my Vocation, he says.

VVin.
No, he told my Mother, a Proctor was a
Claw of the Beast, and that she had little less |than
committed Abomination in marrying me so as she ha's
done.

Joh.
Every Line (he says) that a Proctor writes,
when it comes to be read in the Bishop's Court,
is a long black Hair, kemb'd out of the Tail of An-
ti-Christ.

VVin-w.
When came this Proselyte?

Joh.
Some three days since.