 | The Magnetick Lady :or, Hvmors Reconcil'd |  |
Scene VII.
Chaire. Needle. Polish. Keepe.Cha.
Goe, get a Nurse, procure her at what rate
You can: and out o'th' house with it, sonne Needle.
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Nee.
Good Mother,
I know it, but the best would now be made on't.
Cha.
And shall: you should not fret so, Mrs. Polish,
Nor you Dame Keepe; my Daughter shall doe well,
When she has tane my Cawdle. I ha' knowne.
Twenty such breaches piec'd up, and made whole,
Without a bum of noise. You two fall out?
And teare up one another?
Pol.
Blessed woman?
Blest be the Peace-maker.
Kee.
The Peace-dresser!
Ile heare no peace from her. I have beene wrong'd,
So has my Lady, my good Ladies worship,
And I will right her, hoping shee'll right me.
Pol.
Good gentle Keepe, I pray thee Mistris Nurse,
Pardon my passion, I was misadvis'd,
Be thou yet better, by this grave sage woman,
Who is the Mother of Matrons, and great persons,
And knowes the world.
Kee.
I doe confesse, she knowes
Something—and I know something—.
Pol.
Put your somethings
Together then.
Cha.
I, here's a chance falne out
You cannot helpe; lesse can this Gentlewoman;
I can and will, for both. First, I have sent
By-chop away; the cause gone, the fame ceaseth.
Then by my Cawdle, and my Cullice, I set
My Daughter on her feet, about the house here:
Shee's young, and must stirre somewhat for necessity,
Her youth will beare it out. She shall pretend,
T'have had a fit o' the Mother: there is all.
If you have but a Secretary Landresse,
To blanch the Linnen—Take the former counsels
Into you; keepe them safe i' your owne brests;
And make your Merkat of hem at the highest.
Will you goe peach, and cry your selfe a foole
At Granam's Crosse? be laugh'd at, and dispis'd?
Betray a purpose, which the Deputie
Of a double Ward, or scarce his Alderman,
With twelve of the wisest Questmen could find out,
Imployed by the Authority of the Citie?
Come, come, be friends: and keepe these women-matters,
Smock-secrets to our selves, in our owne verge.
Wee shall marre all, if once we ope the mysteries
O' the Tyring-house, and tell what's done within:
No Theaters are more cheated with apparances,
Or these shop-lights, then th'Ages, and folke in them,
That seeme most curious.
Pol.
Breath of an Oracle!
You shall be my deare Mother; wisest woman
That ever tip'd her tongue, with point of reasons,
To turne her hearers! Mistris Keepe, relent,
I did abuse thee; I confesse to pennance:
And on my knees aske thee forgivenesse.
Cha.
Rise,
She doth begin to melt, I see it—.
Kee.
Nothing
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Witch did not trouble me, nor Gipsie; no
Nor Beggar. But a Baud, was such a name!
Cha.
No more rehearsals; Repetitions
Make things the worse: The more wee stirre (you know
The Proverbe, and it signifies a) stink.
What's done, and dead, let it be buried.
New houres will fit fresh handles, to new thoughts.
| The Magnetick Lady :or, Hvmors Reconcil'd | |