Ben Jonson - Bartholomew Fayre Act 1. Scene 2 lyrics

Win-wife, Little-wit, Win. Why, how now, Master Little-wit! measuring of Lips? or molding of Kisses? which is it? Litt. Troth, I am a little taken with my Wins dres- sing here! Dost not fine, Master Win-wife? How do you apprehend, Sir? She would not ha' worn this Ha- bit. I challenge all Cheapside to shew such another: More-fields, Pimlico-path, or the Exchange, in a Summer- Evening, with a Lace to boot, as this has. Dear Win, let Master Win-wife kiss you. He comes a wooing to our Mother, Win, and may be our Father perhaps, Win. There's no harm in him, Win. Win-w. None i' the Earth, Master Little-wit. Litt. I envy no Man my Delicates, Sir. Win-w. Alas, you ha' the Garden where they grow still! A Wife here with a Strawberry-Breath, Cherry- Lips, Apricot-Cheeks, and a soft Velvet Head, like a Melicotton. Litt. Good, i'faith! now dulness upon me, that I had not that before him, that I should not light on't as well as he! Velvet Head! Win-w. But my taste, Master Little-wit, tend to Fruit of a latter kind: the Sober Matron, your Wives Mother. Litt. I! we know you are a Suitor, Sir; Win, and I both, wish you well: By this Licence here would you had her, that your Two Names were as fast in it as here are a Couple. Win would fain have a fine Young Father i' Law, with a Feather: that her Mother might Hood it, and Chain it, with Mistris Over- doe. But you do not take the right course, Master Win-wife. Win-w. No? Master Little-wit, why? Lit. You are not mad enough. Win-w. How? Is Madness a right course? Lit. I say nothing, but I wink upon Win. You have a Friend, one (Master Quarlous) comes here some- times. Win-w. Why? he makes no Love to her, do's he? Lit. Not a Tokenworth that ever I saw, I a**ure you: But —— Win-w. What? Lit. He is the more Mad-cap o' the Two. You do not apprehend me. Win. You have a hot Coal i' your Mouth now, you cannot hold. Lit. Let me out with it, dear Win. Win. I'll tell him my self. Lit. Do, and take all the Thanks, and much do good thy pretty heart, Win. Win. Sir, my Mother has had her Nativity-water cast lately by the Cunning-Men in Cow-lane, and they ha' told her her Fortune, and do ensure her, she shall never have happy hour, unless she marry within this Sen'night; and when it is, it must be a Mad Man, they say. Lit. I, but it must be a Gentleman-Mad Man. Win. Yes, so the t' other man of More-fields says. Win-w. But do's she believe 'em? Lit. Yes, and has been at Bedlam twice since evety day, to enquire if any Gentleman be there, or to come there mad! Win-w. Why, this is a Confederacy, a meer piece of practice upon her by these Impostors. Lit. I tell her so; or else, say I, that they mean some Young Madcap-Gentleman (for the Devil can equivo- cate as well as a Shop-keeper) and therefore would I ad- vise you to be a little madder than Master Quarlous here- after. Win. Where is she? stirring yet? Lit. Stirring! Yes, and studying an Old Elder come from Banbury, a Suitor that puts in here at Meal-tide, to praise the painful Brethren, or pray that the Sweet Singers may be restor'd; Says a Grace as long as his Breath lasts him! Some time the Spirit is so strong with him, it gets quite out of him, and then my Mother, or Win, are fain to fetch it again with Malmsey, or Aqua Cœlestis. VVin. Yes indeed, we have such a tedious Life with him for his Dyet, and his Clothes too, he breaks his bu*tons, and cracks Seams at every Saying he sobs out. John. He cannot abide my Vocation, he says. VVin. No, he told my Mother, a Proctor was a Claw of the Beast, and that she had little less |than committed Abomination in marrying me so as she ha's done. Joh. Every Line (he says) that a Proctor writes, when it comes to be read in the Bishop's Court, is a long black Hair, kemb'd out of the Tail of An- ti-Christ. VVin-w. When came this Proselyte? Joh. Some three days since.