fools, I did allow those reasons, but as my Scholars and companions damn'd 'em: do you know what it is to wooe a widow? answer me coolely now, and understandingly.

Hare. Why to lie with her, and to enjoy her wealth.

Val. Why there you are fools still, crafty to catch your selves, pure politick fools, I lookt for such an answer; once more hear me, it is, to wed a widow, to be doubted mainly, whether the state you have be yours or no, or those old boots you ride in. Mark me, widows are long extents in Law upon news, livings upon their bodies winding-sheets, they that enjoy 'em, lie but with dead mens monuments, and beget only their own ill Epitaphs: Is not this plain now?

Bell. Plain spoken.

Val. And plain truth; but if you'le needs do things of danger, do but lose your selves, not any part concerns your understandings, for then you are Meacocks, fools, and miserable march off amain, within an inch of a Fircug, turn me o'th' toe like a Weather-cock, kill every day a Sergeant for a twelve month, rob the Exchequer, and burn all the Rolls, and these will make a shew.

Hare. And these are trifles.

Val. Considered to a Widow, empty nothings, for here you venture but your persons, there the varnish of your persons, your discretions; why 'tis a monstrous thing to marry at all, especially as now 'tis made; me thinks a man, an understanding man, is more wise to me, and of a nobler tie, than all these trinkets; what do we get by women, but our senses, which is the rankest part about us, satisfied, and when that's done, what are we? Crest-fallen Cowards. What benefit can children be, but charges and disobedience? What's the love they render at one and twenty years? I pray die Father: when they are young, they are like bells rung backwards, nothing but noise and giddiness; and come to years once, there drops a son by th' sword in his Mistresses quarrel, a great joy to his parents: A Daughter ripe too, grows high and lusty in her blood, must have a heating, runs away with a supple ham'd Servingman: his twenty Nobles spent, takes to a trade, and learns to spin mens hair off; there's another, and most are of this nature, will you marry?

Fount. For my part yes, for any doubt I feel yet.

Val. And this same widow?

Fount. If I may, and me thinks, however you are pleased to dispute these dangers, such a warm match, and for you, Sir, were not hurtfull.

Val. Not half so killing as for you, for me she cannot with all the Art she has, make me more miserable, or much more fortunate, I have no state left, a benefit that none of you can brag of, and there's the Antidote against a Widow, nothing to lose, but that my soul inherits, which she can neither law nor claw away; to that, but little flesh, it were too much else; and that unwholsom too, it were too rich else; and to all this contempt of what she do's I can laugh at her tears, neglect her angers, hear her without a faith, so pity her as if she were a Traytour, moan her person, but deadly hate her pride; if you could do these, and had but this discretion, and like fortune, it were but an equal venture.

Fount. This is malice.

Val. When she lies with your land, and not with you, grows great with joyntures, and is brought to bed with all the state you have, you'le find this certain; but is it come to pass you must marry, is there no buff will hold you?

Bel. Grant it be so.

Val. Then chuse the tamer evil, take a maid, a maid not worth a penny; make her yours, knead her, and mould her yours, a maid worth nothing, there's a vertuous spell in that word nothing; a maid makes conscience of half a Crown a week for pins and puppits, a maid will be content with one Coach and two Horses, not falling out because they are not matches; with one man satisfied, with one rein guided, with one faith, one content, one bed, aged she makes the wise, preserves the fame and issue; a widow is a Christmas-box that sweeps all.

Fount. Yet all this cannot sink us.

Val. You are my friends, and all my loving friends, I spend your mony, yet I deserve it too, you are my friends still, I ride your horses, when I want I sell 'em; I eat your meat, help to wear her linnen, sometimes I make you drunk, and then you seal, for which I'le do you this commodity, be ruled, and let me try her, I will discover her, the truth is, I will never leave to trouble her, till I see through her, then if I find her worthy.

Hare. This was our meaning Valentine.

Val. 'Tis done then, I must want nothing.

Hare. Nothing but the woman.

Val. No jealousie; for when I marry, the Devil must be wiser than I ake him; and the flesh foolisher: come let's to dinner, and when I am well whetted with wine, have at her.[Exeunt.

Enter Isabella, and Luce.

Isab. But art thou sure?

Luce. No surer than I heard.

Hare. That it was that flouting fellows Brother?

Luce. Yes, Shorthose told me so.

Hare. He did searc[h] out the truth?

Luce. It seems he did.

Har. Prethee Luce call him hither, if he be no worse, I never repent my pity, now sirra, what was he we sent you after, the Gentleman i'th' black?

Enter Shorthose.

Short. I'th' torn black?

Isab. Yes, the same Sir.

Short. What would your Worship with him?

Isab. Why, my Worship would know his name, and what he is.

Short. 'Is nothing, he is a man, and yet he is no man.

Isab. You must needs play the fool.

Short. 'Tis my profession.

Isab. How is he a man, and no man?

Short. He's a begger, only the sign of a man, the bush pull'd down, which shows the house stands emptie.

Isab. What's his calling?

Short. They call him begger.

Isab. What's his kindred?

Short. Beggers.

Isab. His worth?

Short. A learned begger, a poor Scholar.

Isab. How does he live?

Short. Like worms, he eats old Books.

Isab. Is Valentine his Brother.

Short. His begging Brother.

Isab. What may his name be?

Short. Orson.

Isab. Leave your fooling.

Short. You had as good say, leave your living.

Isab. Once more tell me his name directly.

Short. I'le be hang'd first, unless I heard him Christned, but I can tell what foolish people call him.

Isab. What?

Short. Francisco.

Isab. Where lies this learning, Sir?

Short. In Pauls Church yard forsooth.

Isab. I mean the Gentleman, fool.

Short. O that fool, he lies in loose sheets every where, that's no where.

Luce. You have glean'd since you came to London: in the Country, Shorthose, you were an arrant fool, a dull cold coxcombe, here every Tavern teaches you, the pint pot has so belaboured you with wit, your brave acquaintance that gives you Ale, so fortified your mazard, that now there's no talking to you.

Isab. 'Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.

Short. I hope so, I have not waited at the tail of wit so long to be an Ass.

Luce. But say now, Shorthose, my Lady should remove into the Country.

Short. I had as lieve she should remove to Heaven, and as soon I would undertake to follow her.

Luce. Where no