University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Penelope and Dol.
Pen.
How long, dear Dol, shall pensive Pen thus mourn
Her absent Spouse, and hope his safe Return!
Now more than nineteen rolling Years are pass'd,
Since these fond Arms entwin'd my Soldier last.
How hard is my uncommon Lot of Life,
Uncertain if a Widow, or a Wife!
And harder still, when scarce a Twelvemonth wed,
To have my Husband ravish'd from my Bed!

[Weeping.
Dol.
Madam, cheer up, and do not thus complain,
For, as the Proverb says, to grieve is vain:
Perhaps my Master's dead, if not, they say,
A Woman need but seven Years to stay;
Thrice seven Times almost the Sun his Race
Has ran, since you beheld your Husband's Face;
What then should hinder making You a Bride?
Now certainly the Law is of your Side.

Pen.
Talk not of any Husband, Dol, to me,
Far from my Thoughts be ev'ry one but he.

Dol.
But, Madam, do not wholly banish Joy;
Be comforted, your Son's a hopeful Boy.

Pen.
O! Tele, Tele, when thy Face I view,
Thy Father's Image does my Woes renew;
While he's away what Comfort can I find?
Nor Gin, nor Nantz, can ease a lovesick Mind.
My Neighbour Limbeck has not in his Shop,
Ah! Me! for Griefs like mine one cordial Drop.

Dol.
Then, if you please, I will to Gemmit's go;
He has a Dram, I'm sure, will ease your Woe.

Pen.
Peace poor Adviser.—O! you silly Sow,
Ha' done; and talk no more of drinking now.

Dol.
What if you dress, and go to see a Play?
Henley and Violante act to-day.

Pen.
Dress! I cou'd almost throw my Cap away.
She pulls off her Cap.
SONG I.
I have not comb'd, this Month, these matted Locks,
Nor, all this Quarter, worn but two clean Smocks.
I live like any Hen pen'd up in Coop;
You see I don't so much as wear a Hoop.

Dol.
Yet, Spite of all thy slattern Air, and Grace,
The Men find Something pretty in thy Face.

Pen.
And what of that? Do'st think I'd be a Whore?
Or do'st thou think Ulysses is no more?

Dol.
But, Madam, have you no Regard to Fame?
Thimble and Hopkins will put in their Claim.

Pen.
To hear the Butcher too, Will Cleaver, bellow!

Dol.
SONG II.

Pen.
Why do these Rakehells thus disturb my Quiet?
Why come they here to make this dayly Riot?

Dol.
They say your Promise they can ne'er forget,
While you are weaving, Sooth, the Cabbage-net:
You told them faithfully, when that is done,
You'd give Yourself to Tom, to Will, or John.

Pen.
It is not finish'd yet, nor ever will,
For the Day's Work the Night unravels still;
Tell them from thence of Hopes they've not a Glimps;
I made the Promise but to bite the Pimps:
I can despise their Treats, their Stout, their Ale,
Nor can their Hotpot, nor their Punch, prevail;
But see, Tom Thimble comes, avoid the Place;
I cannot bear that Pricklouse Raskal's Face.

She goes out.