Hare. Why to lie with her, and to enjoy her wealth.

Val. Why there you are fools still, crafty to catch your selves, pure politick fools, I lookt for such an answer; once more hear me, it is, to wed a widow, to be doubted mainly, whether the state you have be yours or no, or those old boots you ride in.  Mark me, widows are long extents in Law upon news, livings upon their bodies winding-sheets, they that enjoy ’em, lie but with dead mens monuments, and beget only their own ill Epitaphs:  Is not this plain now?

Bell. Plain spoken.

Val. And plain truth; but if you’le needs do things of danger, do but lose your selves, not any part concerns your understandings, for then you are Meacocks, fools, and miserable march off amain, within an inch of a Fircug, turn me o’th’ toe like a Weather-cock, kill every day a Sergeant for a twelve month, rob the Exchequer, and burn all the Rolls, and these will make a shew.

Hare. And these are trifles.

Val. Considered to a Widow, empty nothings, for here you venture but your persons, there the varnish of your persons, your discretions; why ’tis a monstrous thing to marry at all, especially as now ’tis made; me thinks a man, an understanding man, is more wise to me, and of a nobler tie, than all these trinkets; what do we get by women, but our senses, which is the rankest part about us, satisfied, and when that’s done, what are we?  Crest-fallen Cowards.  What benefit can children be, but charges and disobedience?  What’s the love they render at one and twenty years?  I pray die Father:  when they are young, they are like bells rung backwards, nothing but noise and giddiness; and come to years once, there drops a son by th’ sword in his Mistresses quarrel, a great joy to his parents:  A Daughter ripe too, grows high and lusty in her blood, must have a heating, runs away with a supple ham’d Servingman:  his twenty Nobles spent, takes to a trade, and learns to spin mens hair off; there’s another, and most are of this nature, will you marry?

Fount. For my part yes, for any doubt I feel yet.

Val. And this same widow?

Fount. If I may, and me thinks, however you are pleased to dispute these dangers, such a warm match, and for you, Sir, were not hurtfull.

Val. Not half so killing as for you, for me she cannot with all the Art she has, make me more miserable, or much more fortunate, I have no state left, a benefit that none of you can brag of, and there’s the Antidote against a Widow, nothing to lose, but that my soul inherits, which she can neither law nor claw away; to that, but little flesh, it were too much else; and that unwholsom too, it were too rich else; and to all this contempt of what she do’s I can laugh at her tears, neglect her angers, hear her without a faith, so pity her as if she were a Traytour, moan her person, but deadly hate her pride; if you could do these, and had but this discretion, and like fortune, it were but an equal venture.