ine, and
truly too; 'tis not your charitie can coin such sums to give away as you
have done, in that you have no wisdom _Isabel_, no nor modesty,
where nobler uses are at home; I tell you, I am ashamed to find this in
your years, far more in your discretion, none to chuse but things for
pity, none to seal your thoughts on, but one of no abiding, of no name;
nothing to bring you to but this, cold and hunger: A jolly Joynture
sister, you are happy, no mony, no not ten shillings.

_Isab._ You search nearly.

_Wid._ I know it as I know your folly, one that knows not where he
shall eat his next meal, take his rest, unless it be i'th' stocks; what
kindred has he, but a more wanting Brother, or what vertues.

_Isab._ You have had rare intelligence, I see, sister.

_Wid._ Or say the man had vertue, is vertue in this age a full
inheritance? what Joynture can he make you, _Plutarchs Morals_, or
so much penny rent in the small Poets? this is not well, 'tis weak, and
I grieve to know it.

_Isab._ And this you quit the town for?

_Wid._ Is't not time?

_Isab._ You are better read in my affairs than I am, that's all I
have to answer, I'le go with you, and willingly, and what you think most
dangerous, I'le sit laugh at. For sister 'tis not folly but good
discretion governs our main fortunes.

_Wid._ I am glad to hear you say so.

_Isa._ I am for you.

_Enter_ Shorthose, _and_ Humphrey, _with riding rods._

_Hum._ The Devil cannot stay her, she'l on't, eat an egg now, and
then we must away.

_Short._ I am gaul'd already, yet I will pray, may _London_
wayes from henceforth be full of holes, and Coaches crack their wheels,
may zealous Smiths so housel all our Hackneys, that they may feel
compunction in their feet, and tire at _High-gate_, may it rain
above all Almanacks till Carriers sail, and the Kings Fish-monger ride
like _Bike Arion_ upon a Trout to _London_.

_Hum._ At S. _Albanes_, let all the Inns be drunk, not an Host
sober to bid her worship welcom.

_Short._ Not a Fiddle, but all preach't down with Puritans; no meat
but Legs of Beef.

_Hum._ No beds but Wool-Packs.

_Short._ And those so crammed with Warrens of starved Fleas that
bite like Bandogs; let _Mims_ be angry at their S. _Bel-Swagger_,
and we pass in the heat on't and be beaten, beaten abominably, beaten
horse and man, and all my Ladies linnen sprinkled with suds and
dish-water.

_Short._ Not a wheel but out of joynt.

_Enter_ Roger _laugh-ing