[Enter Frailty.]

FRAILTY.

O, Mistress Moll, Mistress Moll.

MOLL.

How now? what's the news?

FRAILTY.

The Knight your suitor, sir John Penny-Dub--

MOLL.

Sir John Penny-Dub? where? where?

FRAILTY.

He's walking in the Gallery.

MOLL.

Has my Mother seen him yet?

FRAILTY.

O no, she's--spitting in the Kitchen.

MOLL.

Direct him hither softly, good Frailty,-- I'll meet him half way.

FRAILTY.

That's just like running a Tilt; but I hope he'll break nothing this time.

[Exit.]

[Enter Sir John Penny-Dub.]

MOLL.

'Tis happiness my Mother saw him not: O welcome, good Sir John.

PENNY-DUB.

I thank you, faith.--Nay, you must stand me, till I kiss you: 'tis the fashion every where, I-faith, and I came from Court enow.

MOLL.

Nay, the Fates forfend that I should anger the fashion!

PENNY-DUB.

Then, not forgetting the sweet of new ceremonies, I first fall back, then recovering my self, make my honour to your lip thus: and then accost it.

MOLL.

Trust me, very pretty, and moving; y'are worthy on't, sir.

[Kissing: Enter Widdow and Sir G.o.dfrey.]

O, my Mother, my Mother! now she's here, we'll steal into the Gallery.

[Exeunt.]

SIR G.o.dFREY.

Nay, Sister, let Reason rule you, do not play the fool; stand not in your own light. You have wealthy offers, large tendrings; do not with-stand your good fortune: who comes a wooing to you, I pray? no small fool; a rich Knight ath City, Sir Oliver Muck-Hill--no small fool I can tell you: and Furthermore, as I heard late by your Maid-servants, (as your Maid-servants will say to me any thing, I thank 'em) both your Daughters are not without Suitors, aye, and worthy ones too!

one a Brisk Courtier, Sir Andrew Tip-Staff, suitor a far off to your eldest Daughter, and the third a huge-wealthy Farmer's son, a fine young Country Knight, they call him Sir John Penny-Dub: a good name, marry; he may have it coined when he lacks money. What blessings are these, Sister!

WIDDOW.

Tempt me not, Satan.

SIR G.o.dFREY.

Satan? do I look like Satan? I hope the Devil's not so old as I, I tro.

WIDDOW.

You wound my senses, Brother, when you name A suitor to me:--oh, I cannot abide it, I take in poison, when I hear one nam'd.

[Enter Simon.]

How now, Simon? where's my son Edmund?

SIMON.

Verily Madame, he is at vain Exercise, dripping in the Tennis-court.

WIDDOW.

At Tennis-court? oh, now his father's gone, I shall have no rule with him; oh, wicked Edmond, I might well compare this with the Prophecy in the Chronicle, tho far inferior: as Harry of Monmouth won all, and Harry of Windsor lost all; so Edmund of Bristow, that was the Father, got all, and Edmond of London, that's his son now, will spend all.

SIR G.o.dFREY.

Peace, Sister, we'll have him reformed, there's hope on him yet, tho it be but a little.

[Enter Frailty.]

FRAILTY.

Forsooth, Madam, there are two or three Archers at door would very gladly speak with your Ladyship.

WIDDOW.

Archers?

SIR G.o.dFREY.

Your husband's Fletcher, I warrant.

WIDDOW.

Oh!

Let them come near, they bring home things of his.

Troth, I should ha forgot 'em. How now, Villain?

Which be those Archers?

[Enter the suitors Sir Andrew Tip-staff, Sir Oliver Muck-hill, and Penny-dub.]

FRAILTY.