SIR OLIVER

Well, where your wife. I'll give her somewhat, though I love not thee. A Ruffian Knave a is. I am indeed fair maid, My style is Knight: come let me kiss your lips. Not so, The foolish knave ha been accounted wild, And so have I, but I am now come home, And so will he. Nay sighs not. For you shall find him loving and me thankful. And were it not a scandal to my honour, To be consenting to my sons attempt, You should unto my house, mean while take this, As pledge and token of my after love: How long since died your father. Well sirrah, love this woman, And when you are man and wife bring her to me, She shall be welcome. I must be gone, I must a wooing too. We old men have our cretchets, our conundrums, Our fegares, quirks and quibibles, As well as youth, Justice Tutchim I go To hunt no Buck, but prick a lusty Do, I go in truth a wooing. Justice not so: by her there hangs a Tale. She ha a daughter. I likewise have a son, A villainous Boy, his father up and down, What should I say, these Velvet bearded boys, Will still be doing, say what we old men can, Has done the deed, has peirst the vessels head, And knows by this the vintage. All this and more. Not I by heaven. Oh God have you no room Beyond this Chamber, has sworn to kill me, And piss in my very visnomy, Oh God a comes. Hold Captain. Good Captain hold. It's not your beard shall carry it, down with the rogue. Why so I did. What would you have me do when I was down, And he stood thundering with his weapon drawn, Ready to cut my throat. Good meat the belly fills, good wine the brain, Women please men, men pleasure them again, Ka me, ka thee, one thing must rub another, English love Scots, Welshmen love each other. That may not be, For excommunications then will flee. Why is there a fee belonging to it. Whom have we here what my madheaded son What makes he here so late? say I am gone, And I the whilst will step behind the hangings. Now fresh and youthful as the month of May, I'll bid my Bride good morrow, Musicians on, Lightly, lightly, and by my knighthood's spur, This year you shall have my protection, And yet not buy your livery coats your selves: God morrow Bride, fresh, fresh, as the month of May, I come to kiss thee on thy wedding day. Would, would: Villain, slave, thou hast wronged my wife. Villain slave, I'll hang thee by the statute, Thou hast two wives. Thou villain slave thou hast abused thy father. I am undone. The devil take my soul but I did love her. And why? and why slut. I am witness thou hadst the heir. You are well met, know ye me good sir, Belike you think I have no eyes, no ears, No nose to smell, and wind out all your tricks, Y'haue stole Sir Somerfields heir, nay we can find, Your wildest paths, your turnings and returns, Your traces, squats, the insets, forms and holes, You youngmen use, if once cursagest wits Be set a hunting, are you now crept forth, Have you hid your head within a suburb hold All this while, and are you now crept forth? Thou varlet knave, T'hast stolen away Sir John Somerfields heir, But never look for countenance from me, Carry her whither thou wilt. Widow I must be short. I meant I must be brief. Widow I must be brief, what old men do, They must do quickly. And old men know their q's, my Love you know, Has been protested long, and now I come To make my latest tender, and old grown oak Can keep you from the rain, and stands as fair And portly as the best' If you can Like, you shall be Ladified, Live at the court, and soon be God with child, What do you think we old men can do nothing? You shall have J wells, A Baboon, Parrat, and and Izeland Dog, And I my self to bear you company. Your Jointure is five hundred pound by year, Beside your Plate, your Chains and household stuff, When envious sat shall change this mortal life. Nay to thy grief, Know varlet I will be wed this morning, Thou shalt not be there, nor once be graced With a piece of Rosemary: I'll casheere thee, Do not reply, I will not stay to hear thee. Exit. No doubt, no doubt. A sirrah has a born the wentch away, My son i'faith, my very son i'faith, When I was young and had and able back, And wore the brissell on my upper lipe, In good Decorum I had as good conuayance, And could have ferd, and ferked y'away a wench, As soon as ear a man a live; tut boy, I had my winks, my becks treads on the toe, Wrings by the fingers, smiles and other quirks, No Courtier Like me, your Courtiers all are fools, To that which I could do, I could have done it boy. Even to a hare, and that some Ladies know, Peace knave, whats she your wife? It smacks i'faith, I must commend your choice. Farewell good Justice Tutchim, Exit. Alas good gentleman his brains are erased, But let that pass: speak widow is't a match, Shall we clap it up. Rogue, Hows this? will the widow and you keep time, What trycke? what quiddit? what figare is this? My casheerd Son speak from the widows chamber, And in his shirt would, sure she is not there, 'Tis so she has took him in for pity, And now removes her chamber I will home, On with my neatestrobes, perfume my beard, Eat cloves, Eringoes and drink some aquauita. To sweeten breath and keep my weame from wambling. Then Like the month of March, come blustering in, Marry the widow shake up this springall, And then as quiet as a sucking lamb, Close by the widow will I rest all night, As for my breath I have crotchets and devises, Ladies rank breathes are often healpt with spices. I find it true, That wine, good news, and a young wholesome wentch Cheer up and old men blood, I tell thee boy, I am right hearty glad, to hear thy brother; Hath God so great and heir; now were my self, So well bestowed I should rejoice i'faith. 'Tis more then so. I'll seem offended still though I am glad, Has God rich Summer-fields heir. Is not that he. But where the wentch. How Like you this, shall we endure this thunder, Or go no further. So late good Justice. Nay even to night, So you be pleased with little warning widow, We old men can be ready, and thou shalt see, Before the time that chanticlere, Shall call and tell the day is near, When wentches lying on their backs, Receive with joy their love-stolen smacks, When maids awaked from their first sleep, Deceived with dreams begin to weep, And think if dreams, such pleasures know, What sport the substance them would show, When Ladies gin white Limbs to spread, Her love but new stolen to her bed, His cotton shows yet scarce put off, And deer's not laugh, speak, sneze, or cough, When precise dams begin to think, Why their grose souring husbands stink, What pleasure it then to enjoy, A nimble vicar, or a boy. Before this time thou shalt behold, Me quaffing out our brydall bole. Warm blood the young men slave, the old men God Makes me so stir thus soon, it stirs isayth, And with a kind of Itching pricks me on, To bid my bride boun Jour, Oh this desire, Is even another filtcht promethian fire, By which we old men live, performance then, I thats poor old men's baine, that in old men, Comes limping off more lame God knows then he, Which in a close, a hight and dangerous fight, Has been dismembered and craves by letter patents, Yet scarce a woman that considers this, Women have tricks fi ks and farthinggales, A generation are they full of subtlety, And all most honest where they want the means. To be otherwise. Therefore I'll have and eye My widow goes not oft to visit kinsfolks, By birth she is a Ninny, and that I know, Is not in London held the smallest kindred, I must have wits and brains, come on my friends, Out with your tools, and toot, a strane of mirth. And a pleasant song to wake the widow. As I am by my council well informed, This very day, Would would would. I was about to draw. Why then weel chop it up. Never fear thy payment. This I will say, For Courtiers theyle be sure to pay each other, How ere they deal with Citizens. How I sweat, I can hold no longer, degenerate bastard, I here disclaim thee, casheere thee, nay more, I disinherit thee both of my love. And living, get thee a grey cloak and hat And walk in Pauls amongst thy casheerd mates As melancholy as the best: Maids may be maids to night and not to morrow. Women are free and fell their maidenheads, As men fell cloth, by yard and handful, But if you chance to see your Sister widow, Comfort her tears and say her daughters matched, With one that has a knocker to his Father, And honest Noble Knight. Is this the place you were appointed to meet him. A nimble spirited knave, the villain boy, Has one trick of his sier, has God the wench. Stolen your rich Sisters heir. And whats he. Not afraid, But of all men I love not to meddle with a Drunkard: Have you any Room backwards. How?