Ben Jonson - The Magnetick Lady. Act 4. Scene 7. lyrics

Chair, Needle, Polish, Keep. Cha. Go, get a Nurse, procure her at what rate You can: and out o' th' House with it, Son Needle. It is a bad Commodity. Nee. Good mother, I know it, but the best would now be made on't. Cha. And shall: you should not fret so, Mrs. Polish, Nor you Dame Keep; my Daughter shall do well, When she has tane my Cawdle. I ha' known Twenty such breaches piec'd up, and made whole, Without a bum of noise. You two fall out? And tear up one another? Pol. Blessed Woman? Blest be the peace-maker. Keep. The Pease-dresser! I'll hear no Peace from her. I have been wrong'd, So has my Lady, my good Ladies Worship, And I will right her, hoping she'll right me. Pol. Good gentle Keep, I pray thee Mistriss Nurse, Pardon my pa**ion, I was misadvis'd, Be thou yet better, by this grave sage Woman, Who is the Mother of Matrons, and great Persons, And knows the World. Keep. I do confess, she knows Something -- and I know something. -- Pol. Put your somethings Together then. Cha. I, here's a chance fal'n out You cannot help; less can this Gentlewoman; I can and will, for both. First, I have sent By chop-away; the cause gone, the fame ceaseth. Then by my Cawdle, and my Cullice, I set My Daughter on her Feet, about the House here: She's young, and must stir somewhat for necessity, Her youth will bear it out. She shall pretend, T' have had a fit o' the Mother: there is all. If you have but a Secretary Landress, To blanch the Linnen -- Take the former counsels Into you; Keep them safe i' your own breasts, And make your Market of 'em at the highest. Will you go peach, and cry your self a Fool At Granam's Cross? be laugh'd at, and despis'd? Betray a purpose, which the Deputy Of a double Ward, or scarce his Alderman, With twelve of the wisest Questmen could find out, Imployed by the Authority of the City? Come, come, be friends: and keep these Women-matters, Smock-secrets to our selves, in our own verge. We shall mar all, if once we ope the mysteries O' the Tyring-house, and tell what's done within: No Theatres are more cheated with apparances, Or these Shop-lights, than th' Ages, and Folk in them, That seem most curious. Pol. Breath of an Oracle! You shall be my dear Mother; wisest Woman That ever tip'd her Tongue, with point of reasons, To turn her hearers! Mistriss keep, relent, I did abuse thee; I confess to Penance: And on my Knees ask thee forgivness. Cha. Rise, She doth begin to melt, I see it. -- Keep. Nothing Griev'd me so much, as when you call'd me Bawd: Witch did not trouble me, nor Gipsie; no, Nor Beggar. Buat a Bwad, was such a name! Cha. No more rehearsals; repetitions Make things the worse: The more we stir (you know The Proverb, and it signifies a) stink. What's done, and dead, let it be buried. New hours will fit fresh handles, to new thoughts.