Ben Jonson - Bartholomew Fayre Act 1. Scene 1 lyrics

Little-wit. [To him] Win. A Pretty Conceit, and worth the finding! I ha' such luck to spin out these fine things still, and like a Silk-worm, out of my self. Here's Master Bartholomew Cokes, of Harrow o' th' Hill, i' th' County of Middles**, Esquire, takes forth his Licence to marry Mistress Grace Well-born, of the said Place and County: And when do's he take it forth? to day! the Four and Twentieth of August! Bartholmew-day! Bartholmew upon Bartholmew! there's the Device! who would have mark'd such a Leap-Frog Chance now? A very less than Ames-ace, on two Dice! Well, go thy ways, John Little-wit, Proctor John Little- wit: One o' the pretty Wits o' Pauls, the Little-wit of London (so thou art call'd) and something beside. When a Quirk or a Quiblin do's scape thee, and thou dost not watch and apprehend it, and bring it afore the Con- stable of Conceit: (there now, I speak Quib too) let 'em carry thee out o' the Arch-deacons Court into his Kitchin, and make a Jack of thee, instead of a John. (There I am again la!) Win, Good Morrow, Win. I marry, Win! Now you look finely indeed, Win! this Cap do's convince! you'ld not ha' worn it, Win, nor ha' had it Velvet, but a rough Countrey Bever, with a Copper Band, like the Conney-skin-woman of Budge- Row? Sweet Win, let me kiss it! And her fine high Shooes, like the Spanish Lady! Good Win, go a little, I would fain see thee pace, pretty Win! By this fine Cap, I could never leave kissing on't. Win. Come indeed la, you are such a Fool still! Litt. No, but half a one, Win, you are the t'other half: Man and Wife make one Fool, Win. (Good!) Is there the Poctor, or Doctor indeed, i' the Diocess, that ever had the Fortune to win him such a Win! (There I am again!) I do feel Conceits coming upon me, more than I am able to turn Tongue too. A Pox o' these Pretenders to Wit! Your Three Cranes, Miter and Mermaid men! Not a Corn of true Salt, not a Grain of right Mustard amongst them all. They may stand for Places, or so, again the next Wit fall, and pay Two Pence in a Quart more for their Canary than other Men. But gi' me the Man can start up a Justice of Wit out of Six Shillings Beer, and give the Law to all the Poets and Poet-s**ers i' Town, because they are the Players Gossips. 'Slid, other Men have Wives as fine as the Players, and as well drest. Come hither, Win.