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The fourth Scœne.
To her Ciceley, as going to milking.Ile venture to accost her.
Ha! what silken butterfly's yonder! Shee looks
not like one that had kept her selfe warme all night at the
Brick-kils: yet silke petticoates many times are glad with
worse lodging.
Good morrow maid.
Cice.
Should I salute you so, 'twould bring my wit in
question. Pray you what are you?
Bella.
A distrest maid.
Cice.
A maid at your years, and so neere London; where
the sale of one at 15, is as rare as a light wenches conversion.
Never an early walking gallant to take you up this morning!
The Parke here hath fine conveniences: or Totenham Court's
close by: 'Tis suspected that fine Citie Ladies give away fine
things to Court Lords for a Countrey Banquet there.
Bella.
I cannot construe it; my innocence makes understanding
uselesse. Good mayd, wife or widdow (for sure you
are a woman) doe a courteous office to your sexe in me, and
guide me to London.
Cice.
It seems you are a kinde Countrey Gentlewoman,
that have bestow'd your Maidenhead on your Fathers servingman,
and are come up to have a Cittizen foder your
broken ware. The pollicie is growne stale: 'twould hardly
take ever since the Ballad curst the Carrier that brought her
to towne.
Bella.
Y'are a bad woman sure: and from th'aboundance
of your owne foule ils suspect all others.
Cice.
The toy is angry, it would faine counterfeit something:
perhaps to insinuate her selfe, and make me her agent.
But you are deceiv'd my pretty morsell of wantonnesse;
my selfe and my Milke-paile are both honest: I have
no disguis'd tone of Come, or three penny thrip to cloake a
procuresse. I am not the Blades intelligence whether Franke
or Moll remove their lodgings to scape the Constables
search and Bridewell. I will to my Cowes, and leave you to
the fate of the morning: despaire not of a customer; but be
sure I catch you not napping; for if I doe, I have lesse mercy
then Prentices at Shrovetide. I hate hedge-coupling
worse then fasting at Christmas, or a Puritans long Grace
over short Commons.
Bella.
If you are good, pray stay and comfort me.
Cice.
Why let but an honest Iury (which is a kind of wonder
in Middlesex) finde you not guilty of any thing that
may make compassion deafe—alas, she sownes; poore gentlewoman,
bee comforted. Should shee miscarry, I were in
danger, having no witnesse to purge the suspition of being
her murderesse.
Bella.
Worthgood farewell.
Cice.
Ha! what said she? Worthgood! I have heard my
Father often speake that name, and sigh after it. Alas, she is
dead; her breath scarce moves.
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