The Puritain Widow | Page 5

husbands, so all these
tears shall be soon dried up and a better world than ever--What,
Woman? you must not weep still; he's dead, he's buried--yet I cannot
choose but weep for him!
WIDOW. Marry again! no! let me be buried quick then! And that same
part of Quire whereon I tread To such intent, O may it be my grave;

And that the priest may turn his wedding prayers, E'en with a breath, to
funeral dust and ashes! Oh, out of a million of millions, I should ne'er
find such a husband; he was unmatchable,--unmatchable! nothing was
too hot, nor too dear for me, I could not speak of that one thing, that I
had not: beside I had keys of all, kept all, receiv'd all, had money in my
purse, spent what I would, came home when I would, and did all what I
would. Oh, my sweet husband! I shall never have the like.
SIR GODFREY. Sister, ne'er say so; he was an honest brother of mine,
and so, and you may light upon one as honest again, or one as honest
again may light upon you: that's the properer phrase, indeed.
WIDOW. Never! Oh, if you love me, urge it not.
[Kneels.]
Oh may I be the by-word of the world, The common talk at Table in the
mouth Of every Groom and Waiter, if e'er more I entertain the carnal
suite of Man!
MOLL. I must kneel down for fashion too.
FRANCES. And I, whom never man as yet hath scald, E'ev in this
depth of general sorrow, vow Never to marry, to sustain such loss As a
dear husband seems to be, once dead.
MOLL. I lov'd my father well, too; but to say, Nay, vow, I would not
marry for his death-- Sure, I should speak false Latin, should I not? I'd
as soon vow never to come in Bed. Tut! Women must live by th' quick,
and not by th' dead.
WIDOW. Dar Copy of my husband, oh let me kiss thee. How like is
this Model! This brief Picture
[Drawing out her husband's Picture.]
Quickens my tears: my sorrows are renew'd At this fresh sight.
SIR GODFREY. Sister--
WIDOW. Away, All honesty with him is turn'd to clay. Oh my sweet
husband, oh--
FRANCES. My dear father!
[Exeunt mother and Frances.]
MOLL. Here's a pulling, indeed! I think my Mother weeps for all the
women that ever buried husbands; for if from time to time all the
Widowers' tears in England had been bottled up, I do not think all
would have filled a three-half-penny Bottle. Alas, a small matter bucks
a hand-kercher,--and sometimes the spittle stands to nie Saint Thomas a

Watrings. Well, I can mourn in good sober sort as well as another; but
where I spend one tear for a dead Father, I could give twenty kisses for
a quick husband.
[Exit Moll.]
SIR GODFREY. Well, go thy ways, old Sir Godfrey, and thou mayest
be proud on't, thou hast a kind loving sister-in-law; how constant! how
passionate! how full of April the poor soul's eyes are! Well, I would my
Brother knew on't, he would then know what a kind wife he had left
behind him: truth, and twere not for shame that the Neighbours at th'
next garden should hear me, between joy and grief I should e'en cry
out-right!
[Exit Sir Godfrey.]
EDMOND. So, a fair riddance! My father's laid in dust; his Coffin and
he is like a whole-meat-pye, and the worms will cut him up shortly.
Farewell, old Dad, farewell. I'll be curb'd in no more. I perceived a son
and heir may quickly be made a fool, and he will be one, but I'll take
another order.--Now she would have me weep for him, for-sooth, and
why? because he cozn'd the right heir, being a fool, and bestow'd those
Lands upon me his eldest Son; and therefore I must weep for him, ha,
ha. Why, all the world knows, as long as twas his pleasure to get me,
twas his duty to get for me: I know the law in that point; no Attorney
can gull me. Well, my Uncle is an old Ass, and an Admirable
Cockscomb. I'll rule the Roast my self. I'll be kept under no more; I
know what I may do well enough by my Father's Copy: the Law's in
mine own hands now: nay, now I know my strength, I'll be strong
enough for my Mother, I warrant you.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. A street.
[Enter George Pye-board, a scholar and a Citizen, and unto him an old
soldier, Peter Skirmish.]
PYE. What's to be done now, old Lad of War? thou that wert wont to
be as hot as a turn-spit, as nimble as a fencer, and as