More.  Come Widow come, never stand upon a Knight-hood, ’tis a meer paper honour, and not proof enough for a Serjeant.  Come, Come, I’le make thee—­

Wid.  To answer in short, ’tis this Sir.  No Knight no Widow, if you make me any thing, it must be a Lady, and so I take my leave.

More.  Farewel sweet Widow, and think of it.

Wid.  Sir, I do more than think of it, it makes me dream Sir. [Ex. Wid.

More.  She’s rich and sober, if this itch were from her:  and say I be at the charge to pay the Footmen, and the Trumpets, I and the Horsemen too, and be a Knight, and she refuse me then; then am I hoist into the subsidy, and so by consequence should prove a Coxcomb:  I’le have a care of that.  Six thousand pound, and then the Land is mine, there’s some refreshing yet. [Exit.

Actus Tertius.  Scena Prima.

Enter Abigal, and drops her Glove.

Abigal.  If he but follow me, as all my hopes tell me, he’s man enough, up goes my rest, and I know I shall draw him.

Enter Welford.

Wel.  This is the strangest pampered piece of flesh towards fifty, that ever frailty copt withal, what a trim lennoy here she has put upon me; these women are a proud kind of Cattel, and love this whorson doing so directly, that they will not stick to make their very skins Bawdes to their flesh.  Here’s Dogskin and Storax sufficient to kill a Hawk:  what to do with it, besides nailing it up amongst Irish heads of Teere, to shew the mightiness of her Palm, I know not:  there she is.  I must enter into Dialogue.  Lady you have lost your Glove.

Abig.  Not Sir, if you have found it.

Wel.  It was my meaning Lady to restore it.

Abig.  ’Twill be uncivil in me to take back a favour, Fortune hath so well bestowed Sir, pray wear it for me.

Wel.  I had rather wear a Bell.  But hark you Mistres, what hidden vertue is there in this Glove, that you would have me wear it?  Is’t good against sore eyes, or will it charm the Toothach?  Or these red tops; being steept in white wine soluble, wil’t kill the Itch?  Or has it so conceal’d a providence to keep my hand from Bonds?  If it have none of these and prove no more but a bare Glove of half a Crown a pair, ’twill be but half a courtesie, I wear two alwayes, faith let’s draw cuts, one will do me no pleasure.

Abig.  The tenderness of his years keeps him as yet in ignorance, he’s a well moulded fellow, and I wonder his bloud should stir no higher; but ’tis his want of company:  I must grow nearer to him.

Enter Elder Loveless disguised.

Elder Lo.  God save you both.

Abig.  And pardon you Sir; this is somewhat rude, how came you hither?

Elder Lo.  Why through the doors, they are open.