thing slubber'd, my sister is a goodly portly Lady, a woman of a presence, she spreads sattens, as the Kings ships do canvas every where, she may spare me her misen, and her bonnets, strike her main Petticoat, and yet outsail me, I am a Carvel to her.

Luce. But a tight one.

Isab. She is excellent, well built too.

Luce. And yet she's old.

Isab. She never saw above one voyage Luce, and credit me after another, her Hull will serve again, a right good Merchant: she plaies, and sings too, dances and discourses, comes very near Essays, a pretty Poet, begins to piddle with Philosophic, a subtil Chymick Wench, and can extract the Spirit of mens Estates, she has the light before her, and cannot miss her choice for me, 'tis reason I wait my mean fortune.

Luce. You are so bashfull.

Isab. It is not at first word up and ride, thou art cozen'd, that would shew mad i' faith: besides, we lose the main part of our politick government: if we become provokers, then we are fair, and fit for mens imbraces, when like towns, they lie before us ages, yet not carried, hold out their strongest batteries, then compound too without the loss of honour, and march off with our fair wedding, Colours flying. Who are these?

Enter Franc, and Lance.

Luce. I know not, nor I care not.

Isab. Prethee peace then, a well built Gentleman.

Luce. But poorly thatcht.

Lance. Has he devour'd you too?

Fran. H'as gulp'd me down Lance.

Lance. Left you no means to study?

Fran. Not a farthing: dispatcht my poor annuity I thank him, here's all the hope I have left, one bare ten shillings.

Lan. You are fit for great mens services.

Fran. I am fit, but who'le take me thus? mens miseries are now accounted stains in their natures. I have travelled, and I have studied long, observed all Kingdoms, know all the promises of Art and manners, yet that I am not bold, nor cannot flatter, I shall not thrive, all these are but vain Studies, art thou so rich as to get me a lodging Lance?

Lan. I'le sell the titles of my house else, my Horse, my Hawk, nay's death I'le pawn my wife: Oh Mr. Francis, that I should see your Fathers house fall thus!

Isab. An honest fellow.

Lan. Your Fathers house, that fed me, that bred up all my name!

Isab. A gratefull fellow.

Lan. And fall by—

Fran. Peace, I know you are angry Lance, but I must not hear with whom, he is my Brother, and though you hold him slight, my most dear Brother: A Gentleman, excepting some few rubs, he were too excellent to live here else, fraughted as deep with noble and brave parts, the issues of a noble and manly Spirit, as any he alive. I must not hear you; though I am miserable, and he made me so, yet still he is my Brother, still I love him, and to that tye of blood link my affections.

Isab. A noble nature! dost thou know him Luce?

Luce. No, Mistress.

Isab. Thou shouldest ever know such good men, what a fair body and mind are married! did he not say he wanted?

Luce. What's that to you?

Isab. 'Tis true, but 'tis great pity.

Luce. How she changes! ten thousand more than he, as handsom men too.

Isab. 'Tis like enough, but as I live, this Gentleman among ten thousand thousand! is there no knowing him? why should he want? fellows of no merit, slight and puft souls, that walk like shadows, by leaving no print of what they are, or poise, let them complain.

Luce. Her colour changes strangely.

Isab. This man was made, to mark his wants to waken us; alas poor Gentleman, but will that keep him from cold and hunger, believe me he is well bred, and cannot be but of a noble linage, mark him, mark him well.

Luce. 'Is a handsom man.

Isab. The sweetness of his sufferance sets him off, O Luce, but whither go I?

Luce. You cannot hide it.

Isab. I would he had what I can spare.

Luce. 'Tis charitable.

Lance. Come Sir, I'le see you lodg'd, you have tied my tongue fast, I'le steal before you want, 'tis but a hanging.

Isab. That's a good fellow too, an honest fellow, why, this would move a stone, I must needs know; but that some other time. [Exit Lance, and Franc.

Luce. Is the wind there? that makes for me.

Isab. Come, I forgot a business.

Actus [Secundus]. Scena Prima.

Enter Widow, and Luce.

Wid. My sister, and a woman of so base a pity! what was the fellow?

Luce, Why, an ordinary man, Madam.

Wid. Poor?

Luce. Poor enough, and no man knows from whence neither.

Wid. What could she see?

Luce. Only his misery, for else she might behold a hundred handsomer.

Wid. Did she change much?

Luce. Extreamly, when he spoke, and then her pity, like an Orator, I fear her love framed such a commendation, and followed it so far, as made me wonder.

Wid. Is she so hot, or such a want of lovers, that she must doat upon afflictions? why does she not go romage all the prisons, and there bestow her youth, bewray her wantonness, and flie her honour, common both to beggery: did she speak to him?

Luce. No, he saw us not, but ever since, she hath been mainly troubled.

Wid. Was he young?

Luce. Yes, young enough.

Wid. And looked he like a Gentleman?

Luce. Like such a Gentleman, that would pawn ten oaths for twelve pence.

Wid. My sister, and sink basely! this must not be, does she use means to know him?

Luce. Yes Madam, and has employed a Squire called Shorthose.

Wid. O that's a precious Knave: keep all this private, but still be near her lodging: Luce, what you can gather by any means, let me understand: I'le stop her heat, and turn her charity another way, to bless her self first; be still close to her counsels; a begger and a stranger! there's a bless'dness! I'le none of that; I have a toy yet, sister, shall tell you this is foul, and make you find it, and for your pains take you the last gown I wore; this makes me mad, but I shall force a remedy.

Enter Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain, Valentine.

Fount. Sirra, we have so lookt for thee, and long'd for thee; this widow is the strangest thing, the stateliest, and stands so much upon her excellencies.

Bel. She hath put us off, this month now, for an answer.

Hare. No man must visit her, nor look upon her, no, not say, good morrow, nor good even, till that's past.

Val. She has found what dough you are made of, and so kneads you: are you good at nothing, but these after-games? I have told you often enough what things they are, what precious things, these widows—

Hare. If we had 'em.

Val. Why the Devil has not craft enough to wooe 'em, there be three kinds of fools, mark this note Gentlemen, mark it, and understand it.

Fount. Well, go forward.

Val An Innocent, a knave fool, a fool politick: the last of which are lovers, widow lovers.

Bell. Will you allow no fortune?

Val. No such blind one.

Fount. We gave you reasons, why 'twas needful for us.

Val. As you are those