CONSTANTIA

I have a letter for you. The inside sir will tell you: I shall see he reads it. What love he bears me now. I left her in health. I thank you sir: now shall I see the Punk. he knocks They keep this whore betwixt them. How's that? I did. A said a would, And I believed him, I tell you master I have done that for many of these gallants That no man in this town would do but I. Why trust them on their words But will you hear the news which now supplies, The city with discourse. This sir, they say some of our city dams Were much desirous to see the Baboons Do their newest tricks, went, saw them, came home, Went to bed, slept, next morning one of them, Being to shift a smock, sends down her maid, To warm her one, mean while she begins to think On the Babones tricks, and naked in her bed Begins to practice some, at last she strove, To get her right leg over her head; thus: And by her activity she God it Cross he shoulder: but not withal her power, Could she reduce it, at last much struggling Tumbles quite from the bed upon the flower, The maid by this returned with the warm smock, And seeing her mistress thrown on the ground Trust up Like a football, exclaims, calls help, Runs down amazed, swears that her mistress neck Is broke up comes her husband and neighbours, And finding her thus trus'd, some flatly said She was bewitch, others she was possessed, A third said for her pride, the Devil had set Her face where her rumpe should stand, but at last Her valiant husband steps me boldly to her, Helps her; she a shamed; her husband amazed, The neighbours laughing as none forbear, She tells them of the fatal accident. To which one answers, that if her husband Would leave his trade, and carry his wife about To do this trick in public, she'd get more gold Then all the Babones, Calves with two tails, Or motions what soever. By my troth I know not The men in love. Now will I fallen a board the wating maid, I And will shoot you betwixt wind and water. Foot how did she know that, dost here sweet heart Should not the page be doing with the maid, While the master is busy with the mistress, Please you prick forward, thou art a wench Likely to go the way of all flesh shortly At your service. How breech me. Well I see now a rich well-practised baud, May purse more fees in a summer's progress, Then a well traded lawyer in a whole term, Pandarism! why't is grown a liberal science Or a new sect, and the good professors Will Like the Brownist frequent gravel pits shortly, For they use woods and obscure holes already. Not marry a widow. Good Master Dash shall I put you now a case. Then thus it is, Suppose I am a Page, he is my Master, My Master goes to bed and cannot tell What moan is in his hose, I ere next day Have filched out some, what Actium lies for this. And thats the chambermaid. Master come not you for love, And you would have y e widow. by Jove I never saw one go about his business More untowardly: why sir, do not you know That he which would be inwatd with the Mistress, Must make a way first through the waiting maid? If yowl know the widows affections Feel first the waiting Gentlewoman; do it Master, Some half a dozen kisses were not lost Upon this Gentlewoman, for you must know These waiting-maids are to their Mistress's Like Porches unto doors, you pass the one Before you can have entrance at the other: Or Like your mustered to your piece of brawn, If yowl have one taste well you must not scorn To be dipping in the other, I tell you Master 'Tis not a few men's tales which they prefer Unto their Mistress, in compass of a year- Be ruled by me, untruss your self to her, Out with all your lovesick thoughts to her, Kiss her and give her and angel to buy pins, And this shall sooner win her Mistress love, Then all your protestations, sithes and tears. Here they come; to her boldly Master Do, but dally not, thats the widows phrase, With a heigh pass with a repass. Fee the waitingmaid Master Well sare the waiting maid. Indeed, But dost think the widow wi'l have my master. I will. Sure this Baboune is a great Puritane. So ho ho, Master. In I thought y'ad been more fast asleep, Then a midwife or a Puritane Taylor, At a Sunday evening's Lecture, but sir Why do you rise so soon? The weaker you, you are forbid a widow, And it's the first thing you will fallen into. Me thinks a young clear skind country Gentlewoman, That never saw Baboons, Lyons, or Courtiers, Might prove a handsome wife, or what do you say To a Citizens daughter, that never was in love With a Player, that never learned to dance, That never dwelled near any Inn a Court, Might not she in time prove and honest wife? Faith take a maid, and leave the widow, Master Of all meats I love not a gaping Oyster, Now works it with my wish: my Hope's are full. Aye me accursed: help, help, murder murder, Cursed be the day and hour that gave me breath, Murder, murder: if any Gentleman Can hear my plaints, come forth and assist me. Good sir leave your struggling and acting, And help to save the life of a distressed man, Oh help if you be Gentlemen! It shall not needs, a stirs, give him breath. I do, nay more, If he but swear to embrace her constant love, I'll fetch her to this place. Say am I welcome. IN this disguise, (ere scarce my mourning robes) Could have a general note, I have forsook, My shape, my mother and those rich demeans, Of which I am sole heir, and now resolve, In this disguise of Page to follow him, Whose love first caused me to assume this shape. Lord how my feminine blood stirs at the sighed Of these same breeches, me thinks this codpiece Should betray me: well, I will try the worst, Hither they say he usually does come, Whom I so much affect, what makes he here In the skirts of Holborne, so near the field, And at a garden house, a has some punk Upon my life: no more here he comes. God save you sir: your name unless I err, Is master Thomas Boutcher. Then fecks-law, Dost think that he has conscience to steal, Has not a conscience likewise to deny. Then hang him up ifayth. Rather then so I'll help you to a wife: Rich, well born, and by some accounted fair, And for the worth of her Virginity, I dare presume to pawn my honesty: What say you to Constantiam Somerfield? Yes. My victuals.