Br. Do you mean that which they call a Collect?

Po. Yes.

Br. I have one ready, that I provided before his Death.

Po. I pray let’s hear it.

Br.  O God, that art the Lover of Mankind, that hast by thy chosen Servant John Reuclin, renew’d to Mankind the Gift of Tongues, by which thy holy Spirit from above, did formerly furnish thy Apostles for their Preaching the Gospel; grant that all thy People may every where, in all Languages, preach the Glory of thy Son Jesus Christ, to the confounding of the Tongues of false Apostles; who being in a Confederacy to uphold the impious Tower of Babel, endeavour to obscure thy Glory, and to advance their own, when to thee alone, together with thy only Son Jesus Christ our Lord, and the holy Spirit, is due all Glory to eternal Ages. Amen.

Po. A most elegant and holy Prayer.  As I live, it shall be mine daily.  And I account this a happy Opportunity, that has brought me to the Knowledge of so joyful a Story.

Br. Mayst thou long enjoy that Comfort, and so farewell.

Po. Fare you well too.

Br. I will fare well, but not be a Cook.

A LOVER and MAIDEN.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy presents you with a very chaste Wooing, mingling many philosophical Notions with pleasant Jokes.  Of not being hasty in marrying; of chusing, not only for the Sake of the outward Person, but the inward Endowments of the Mind; of the Firmness of Wedlock; of not contracting Matrimony without the Consent of Parents; of living chastly in Matrimony; of bringing up Children piously; that the Soul is not where it animates, but where it loves.  The Description of a deformed Man.  That Wedlock is to be preferr’d before a single Life, and is not, as it is vulgarly called, a Halter.  That we must not consult our Affections so much as Reason.

PAMPHILUS and MARY.

PA. Good Morrow, Madam, cruel, hard Heart, inflexible.

Ma. Good Morrow to you too, Mr. Pamphilus, as often, and as much, and by what Names you please:  But you seem to have forgotten my Name, ’tis Mary.

Pa. It should rather have been Martia.

Ma. Why so, pray, what is Mars to me?

Pa. Because just as Mars makes a Sport of killing Men, so do you; saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one that loves you.

Ma. Say you so! pray where’s the great Slaughter of Men that I have made?  Where’s the Blood of the Slain?

Pa. You may see one dead Corpse before your Face, if you look upon me.

Ma. What strange Story is this?  Does a dead Man talk and walk?  I wish I may never meet with more frightful Ghosts than you are.

Pa. Ay, indeed, you make a Jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a Dagger in my Breast.  For now I, poor Wretch as I am, die a lingering Death.