The New Inn. Act 5. Scene 2.

Lady, Prudence, Host, Fly.

Sweet Pru, I now thou art a Queen indeed!
These Robes do royally! and thou becom'st 'em!
So they do thee! rich Garments only fit
The Parties they are made for! they shame others.
How did they shew on Goody Taylor's back!

Like a Caparison for a Sow, God save us!
Thy putting 'em on hath purg'd, and hallow'd 'em
From all pollution, meant by the Mechanicks.
Pru. Hang him, poor Snip, a Secular Shop-wit!
H' hath nought but his Sheers to claim by, and his measured,
His Prentice may as well put in for his Needle,
And plead a stitch.     Lad. They have no taint in 'em
Now o' Taylor.     Pru. Yes, of his Wives Hanches.
Thus thick of fat; I smell 'em, o' the say.
Lad. It is restorative, Pru! with thy but chasing it,
A barren Hinds Grease may work Miracles,
Find but his Chamber-door, and he will rise
To thee! or if thou pleasest, fain to be
The wretched Party her self, and com'st unto him
In forma pauperis, to crave the aid
Of his Knight-errant Valour, to the rescue
Of thy distressed Robes! name but thy Gown,
And he will rise to that!     Pru. I'll fire the Charm first,
I had rather die in a Ditch, with Mistress Shore,
Without a Smock, as the pittiful matter has it,
Than owe my Wit to Cloathes, or ha' it beholden.
Host. Still Spirit of Pru!
Fly. And smelling o' the Soveraign!
Pru. No, I will tell him, as it is indeed;
I come from the fine, froward, Frampul Lady,
One was run mad with pride, wild with self-love,
But late encountring a wise Man, who scorn'd her,
And knew the way to his ow Bed, without
Borrowing her Warming-pan, she hath recover'd
Part of her Wits; so much as to consider
How far she hath tresspass'd, upon whom, and how.
And now sits penitent and solitary,
Like the forsaken Turtle, in the Volary
Of the light Heart, the Cage, she hath abus'd,
Mourning her Folly, weeping at the height
She measures with her Eye, from whence she is fall'n,
Since she did branch it, and the top o' the Wood.
Lad. I pr'y thee, Pru, abuse me enough, that's use me
As thou thinkest fit, any course way, to humble me,
Or bring me home again, or Lovel on:
Thou dost not know my sufferings, what I feel,
My fires and fears are met; I burn and freeze,
My Liver's one great Coal, my Heart shrunk up
With all the fivers, and the Mass of Blood
Within me, is a standing lake of fire,
Curl'd with the cold Wind of my gelid Sighs,
That drive a drift of Sleet through all my Body,
And shoot a February through my Veins.
Until I see him, I am drunk with thirst,
And surfeited with hunger of his Presence.
I know not where I am, or no, or speak,
Or whether thou dost hear me.     Pru. Spare Expressions.
I'll once more venture for your Ladiship,
So you will use your Fortunes reverendly.
Lad. Religiously, dear Pru, Love and his Mother,
I'll build them several Churches, Shrines and Altars,
And over head, I'll have, in the Glass Windows,
The story of this Day be painted, round,
For the poor Laity of Love to read.
I'll make my self their Book, nay, their Example,
To bid them take Occasion by the Forelock,
And play no after-games of Love, hereafter.
Host. And hear your Host, and's Fly, witness your Vows,
And like two lucky Birds, bring the Presage
Of a loud Jest: Lord Beaufort married is.     Lad. Ha!
Fly. All to be married.     Pru. To whom, not your Son?
Host. The same Pru. If her Ladiship could take truce
A little with her Passion, and give way
To their Mirth now running.
Lad. Run's it Mirth, let's come,
It shall be well receiv'd and much made of it.
Pru. We must of this, it was our own conception.