The Puritain Widow | Page 7

SKIRMISH. A Fortune-teller? Very proper.
PYE. And you of a figure-caster, or a Conjurer.
SKIRMISH. A Conjurer?
PYE. Let me alone; I'll instruct you, and teach you to deceive all eyes,
but the Devil's.
SKIRMISH. Oh aye, for I would not deceive him, and I could choose,
of all others.
PYE. Fear not, I warrant you; and so by those means we shall help one
another to Patients, as the condition of the age affords creatures enow
for cunning to work upon.
SKIRMISH. Oh wondrous! new fools and fresh Asses.
PYE. Oh, fit, fit! excellent.
SKIRMISH. What, in the name of Conjuring?

PYE. My memory greets me happily with an admirable subject to gaze
upon: The Lady-Widdow, who of late I saw weeping in her Garden for
the death of her Husband; sure she 'as but a watrish soul, and half on't
by this time is dropt out of her Eyes: device well managed may do good
upon her: it stands firm, my first practise shall be there.
SKIRMISH. You have my voice, George.
PYE. Sh'as a gray Gull to her Brother, a fool to her only son, and an
Ape to her youngest Daughter.--I overheard 'em severally, and from
their words I'll derive my device; and thou, old Peter Skirmish, shall be
my second in all slights.
SKIRMISH. Ne'er doubt me, George Pye-board,--only you must teach
me to conjure.
[Enter Captain Idle, pinioned, and with a guard of Officers passeth over
the Stage.]
PYE. Puh, I'll perfect thee, Peter.--How now? what's he?
SKIRMISH. Oh George! this sight kills me. Tis my sworn Brother,
Captain Idle.
PYE. Captain Idle!
SKIRMISH. Apprehended for some felonious act or other. He has
started out, h'as made a Night on't, lackt silver. I cannot but commend
his resolution; he would not pawn his Buff-Jerkin. I would either some
of us were employed, or might pitch our Tents at Usurers' doors, to kill
the slaves as they peep out at the Wicket.
PYE. Indeed, those are our ancient Enemies; they keep our money in
their hands, and make us to be hangd for robbing of 'em. But, come,
let's follow after to the Prison, and know the Nature of his offence; and
what we can steed him in, he shall be sure of; and I'll uphold it still, that
a charitable Knave is better then a soothing Puritain.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. A Street.
[Enter at one door Corporal Oath, a Vain-glorious fellow; and at the
other, three of the Widdow Puritain's Servingmen, Nicholas
Saint-Tantlings, Simon Saint-Mary-Overaries, and Frailty, in black
scurvy mourning coats, and Books at their Girdles, as coming from
Church. They meet.]
NICHOLAS. What, Corporal Oath? I am sorry we have met with you,
next our hearts; you are the man that we are forbidden to keep company

withall. We must not swear I can tell you, and you have the name for
swearing.
SIMON. Aye, Corporal Oath, I would you would do so much as
forsake us, sir; we cannot abide you, we must not be seen in your
company.
FRAILTY. There is none of us, I can tell you, but shall be soundly
whipt for swearing.
CORPORAL. Why, how now, we three? Puritanical Scrape-shoes,
Flesh a good Fridays! a hand.
ALL. Oh!
CORPORAL. Why, Nicholas Saint-Tantlings, Simon Saint Mary
Ovaries, ha's the De'el possest you, that you swear no better? you
half-Christned Catomites, you ungod-mothered Varlets, do's the first
lesson teach you to be proud, and the second to be Cocks-combs?
proud Cocks-combs! not once to do duty to a man of Mark!
FRAILTY. A man of Mark, quatha! I do not think he can shew a
Begger's Noble.
CORPORAL. A Corporal, a Commander, one of spirit, that is able to
blow you up all dry with your Books at your Girdles.
SIMON. We are not taught to believe that, sir, for we know the breath
of man is weak.
[Corporal breathes upon Frailty.]
FRAILTY. Foh, you lie, Nicholas; for here's one strong enough. Blow
us up, quatha: he may well blow me above twelve-score off an him. I
warrant, if the wind stood right, a man might smell him from the top of
Newgate, to the Leads of Ludgate.
CORPORAL. Sirrah, thou Hollow-Book of Max-candle--
NICHOLAS. Aye, you may say what you will, so you swear not.
CORPORAL. I swear by the--
NICHOLAS. Hold, hold, good Corporal Oath; for if you swear once,
we shall all fall down in a swoon presently.
CORPORAL. I must and will swear: you quivering Cocks-combs, my
Captain is imprisoned, and by Vulcan's Leather Cod-piece point--
NICHOLAS. O Simon, what an oath was there.
FRAILTY. If he should chance to break it, the poor man's Breeches
would fall down about his heels, for Venus allows him but one point to
his hose.

CORPORAL. With these my Bully-Feet I