Val. They say you will have four now, and those four stuck in four quarters, like four winds to cool you:  will she not cry nor curse?

Wid. On with your story.

Val. And that you are forcing out of dispensations with sums of money to that purpose.

Wid. Four Husbands! should not I be blest, Sir, for example?  Lord, what should I do with them? turn a Malt-mill, or Tithe them out like Town-bulls to my Tenants, you come to make me angry, but you cannot.

Val. I’le make you merry then, you are a brave Woman, and in despite of envy a right one, go thy wayes, truth thou art as good a Woman, as any Lord of them all can lay his Leg over, I do not often commend your Sex.

Wid. It seems so, your commendations are so studied for.

Val. I came to see you and sift you into Flowr to know your pureness, and I have found you excellent, I thank you; continue so, and shew men how to tread, and women how to follow:  get an Husband, an honest man, you are a good woman, and live hedg’d in from scandal, let him be too an understanding man, and to that stedfast; ’tis pity your fair Figure should miscarry, and then [you] are fixt:  farewel.

Wid. Pray stay a little, I love your company now you are so pleasant, and to my disposition set so even.

Val. I can no longer. [Exit.

Wid. As I live a fine fellow, this manly handsome bluntness shews him honest; what is he, or from whence? bless me, four Husbands! how prettily he fooled me into Vices, to stir my jealousie, and find my nature; a proper Gentleman:  I am not well o’th’ sudden, such a companion I could live and dye with, his angers are meer mirth.

Enter Isabella.

Isa. Come, come, I am ready.

Wid. Are you so?

Isa. What ails she? the Coach stales, and the people, the day goes on, I am as ready now as you desire, Sister:  fie, who stays now, why do you sit and pout thus?

Wid. Prethee be quiet, I am not well.

Isa. For Heav’us sake let’s not ride staggering in the night, come, pray you take some Sweet-meats in your pocket, if your stomach—­

Wid. I have a little business.

Isab. To abuse me, you shall not find new dreams, and new suspicions, to horse withal.

Wid. Lord who made you a Commander! hey ho, my heart.

Isab. Is the wind come thither, and Coward like, do you lose your Colours to ’em? are you sick o’th’ Valentine? sweet Sister, come let’s away, the Country will so quicken you, and we shall live so sweetly:  Luce, my Ladies Cloak; nay, you have put me into such a gog of going, I would not stay for all the world; if I live here, you have so knock’d this love into my head, that I shall love any body, and I find my body, I know not how, so apt—­pray let’s be gone, Sister, I stand on thorns.