ables, had they tongues could tell what blood has
followed, and what feud about your ranks; are we so much below you, that
till you have us, are the tops of nature, to be accounted drones without
a difference? you will make us beasts indeed.

_Val._ Nay worse than this too, proud of your cloaths, they swear
a Mercers Lucifer, a tumour tackt together by a Taylour, nay yet worse,
proud of red and white, a varnish that butter-milk can better.

_Wid._ Lord, how little will vex these poor blind people! if my
cloaths be sometimes gay and glorious, does it follow, my mind must be
my Mercers too? or say my beauty please some weak eyes, must it please
them to think, that blows me up, that every hour blows off? this is an
Infants anger.

_Val._ Thus they say too, what though you have a Coach lined
through with velvet, and four fair _Flanders_ mares, why should the
streets be troubled continually with you, till Carmen curse you? can
there be ought in this but pride of shew Lady, and pride of bum-beating,
till the learned lawyers with their fat bags, are thrust against the
bulks till all their causes crack? why should this Lady, and t'other
Lady, and the third sweet Lady, and Madam at _Mile-end_, be daily
visited, and your poorer neighbours, with course napfes neglected,
fashions conferr'd about, pouncings, and paintings, and young mens
bodies read on like Anatomies.

_Wid._ You are very credulous, and somewhat desperate, to deliver
this Sir, to her you know not, but you shall confess me, and find I will
not start; in us all meetings lie open to these lewd reports, and our
thoughts at Church, our very meditations some will swear, which all
should fear to judge, at least uncharitably, are mingled with your
memories, cannot sleep, but this sweet Gentleman swims in our fancies,
that scarlet man of war, and that smooth senior; not dress our heads
without new ambushes, how to surprize that greatness, or that glorie;
our very smiles are subject to constructions; nay Sir, it's come to this
we cannot pish, but 'tis a favour for some fool or other: should we
examine you thus, wer't not possible to take you without Perspectives?

[_Val._] It may be, but these excuse not.

_Wid._ Nor yours force no truth Sir, what deadly tongues you have,
and to those tongues what hearts, and what inventions? O' my conscience,
and 'twere not for sharp justice, you would venture to aim at your own
mothers, and account it glorie to say you had done so: al