Non.  But there’s one thing still that troubles me; that’s her great belly, and my own too.

Const.  Nay, for mine, my lord, ’tis vanished already; ’twas but a trick to catch the old one.

Lov.  But I’ll do my best; she shall not be long without another.

Isa.  But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid you on’t, but by taking out your guts.

Lov.  ’Tis such a pretty smart rascal, ’tis well I am pleased with my own choice:  but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and gamesters, out of thee!—­

Const.  No, no; two wits could never have lived well together; want would have so sharpened you upon one another.

Isa.  A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.

Const.  And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it else.

Lov.  Or what think you of paying courtiers’ debts with it?

Isa.  Well, to shew I am in charity with my enemies, I’ll make a motion:  While we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live together:  Burr and Failer—­

Fail.  Shall be utterly discarded; I knew ’twould come to that, I vow to gad.

Isa.  Shall be our guests.

[BURR and FAILER throw up their caps, and cry, Vive Madam ISABELLA!

Lov.  And Bibber shall make our wedding clothes without trusting.

Bib.  No, henceforward I’ll trust none but landed men, and such as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now I have got a place in the custom-house.

Fran.  Nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman should go before me; but I’ll to the herald’s office, and see whether the queen’s majesty’s dresser, should not take place of any knight’s wife in Christendom.

Bib.  Now all will out—­no more, good Frances.

Fran.  I will speak, that I will, so I will:  What! shall I be a dresser to the queen’s majesty, and nobody must know on’t?  I’ll send Mr Church-warden word on’t; and, gentlemen, when you come to St Bride’s church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see me in the pew that’s next the pulpit; thank Mr Loveby’s worship for it.

Lov.  Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.

Fran.  This is bitter news, as they say.

Lov.  Cheer up thy wife, Will.  Where are the fiddles?  A dance should do it.

Bib.  I’ll run and call them.

Isa.  I have found out that, will comfort her:  Henceforward I christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.

All.  A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!