Rog.  Sir be addrest, the graces do salute you with the full bowl of plenty.  Is our old enemy entomb’d?

Abig.  He’s safe.

Rog.  And does he snore out supinely with the Poet?

Mar.  No, he out-snores the Poet.

Wel.  Gentlewoman, this courtesie shall bind a stranger to you, ever your servant.

Mar.  Sir, my Sisters strictness makes not us forget you are a stranger and a Gentleman.

Abig.  In sooth Sir, were I chang’d into my Lady, a Gentleman so well indued with parts, should not be lost.

Wel.  I thank you Gentlewoman, and rest bound to you.  See how this foul familiar chewes the Cud:  From thee, and three and fifty good Love deliver me.

Mar.  Will you sit down Sir, and take a spoon?

Wel.  I take it kindly, Lady.

Mar.  It is our best banquet Sir.

Rog.  Shall we give thanks?

Wel.  I have to the Gentlewomen already Sir.

Mar.  Good Sir Roger, keep that breath to cool your part o’th’ Posset, you may chance have a scalding zeal else; and you will needs be doing, pray tell your twenty to your self.  Would you could like this Sir?

Wel.  I would your Sister would like me as well Lady.

Mar.  Sure Sir, she would not eat you:  but banish that imagination; she’s only wedded to her self, lyes with her self, and loves her self; and for another Husband than herself, he may knock at the gate, but ne’re come in:  be wise Sir, she’s a Woman, and a trouble, and has her many faults, the least of which is, she cannot love you.

Abig.  God pardon her, she’l do worse, would I were worthy his least grief, Mistris Martha.

Wel.  Now I must over-hear her.

Mar.  Faith would thou hadst them all with all my heart; I do not think they would make thee a day older.

Abig.  Sir, will you put in deeper, ’tis the sweeter.

Mar.  Well said old sayings.

Wel.  She looks like one indeed.  Gentlewoman you keep your word, your sweet self has made the bottom sweeter.

Abig.  Sir, I begin a frolick, dare you change Sir?

Wel.  My self for you, so please you.  That smile has turn’d my stomach:  this is right the old Embleme of the Moyle cropping of Thistles:  Lord what a hunting head she carries, sure she has been ridden with a Martingale.  Now love deliver me.

Rog.  Do I dream, or do I wake? surely I know not:  am I rub’d off?  Is this the way of all my morning Prayers?  Oh Roger, thou art but grass, and woman as a flower.  Did I for this consume my quarters in Meditation, Vowes, and wooed her in Heroical Epistles?  Did I expound the Owl, and undertook with labour and expence the recollection of those thousand Pieces, consum’d in Cellars, and Tabacco-shops of that our honour’d Englishman Ni.  Br.?  Have I done this, and am I done thus too?  I will end with the wise man, and say; He that holds a Woman, has an Eel by the tail.