W. SMALL. Why, by her comings-in; a little thing Her friends have left her, which with putting to best use, And often turning, yields her a poor living. But what of that? she's now shook off; to thee I'll only cleave: I'll be thy merchant, And to this wealthy fair I'll bring my ware, And here set up my standing: therefore resolve. Nought but my sword is left: if't be a match, Clap hands, contract, and straight to bed: If not, pray, forgive, and straight goes off your head. TAF. I take thy love. W. SMALL. Then straight let's both to bed. TAF. I'll wed to-morrow. W. SMALL. You shall not sleep upon't. An honest contract is as good as marriage. A bird in hand--you know the proverb, widow. TAF. O[432], let me tell thee, I'll love thee, while I live, For this attempt; give me that lusty lad, That wins his widow with his well-drawn blade, And not with oaths and words: a widow's wooing, Not in bare words, but should consist in doing-- I take thee to my husband-- SMALL. I thee to wife. Now to thy bed, and there we'll end this strife. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ SIR OLIVER _and Fiddlers_. OLIVER. Warm blood, the young man's slave, the old man's god, Makes me to stir thus soon; it stirs, i' faith, And with a kind of itching pricks me on To bid my bride _bon jour_; O, this desire Is even another filch'd Promethean fire, By which we old men live; performance, then, Is that poor old men's bane, that in old men Comes limping off more lame, God knows, than he Which in a close, a hot, and dangerous fight, Has been dismembered, and craves by letters patents. Yet scarce a woman that considers this, Women have tricks, firks and farthingales: A generation are they full of subtlety, And all most honest, where they want the means To be otherwise. Therefore, I'll have an eye, My widow goes not oft to visit kinsfolk: By birth she is a Ninny; and that I know Is not in London held the smallest kindred. I must have wits and brains; come on, my friends. Out with your tools, and to't! a strain of mirth, And a pleasant song to wake the widow. _Enter_ WILLIAM SMALL-SHANKS _above, in his shirt_. W. SMALL. Musicians! minstrels! foot, rogues, For God's love, leave your filthy squeaking noise, And get you gone: the widow and myself Will scamble out the shaking of the sheets[433] Without music; we have no need of fiddlers To our dancing. Foot, have you no manners? Cannot a man take his natural rest For your scraping? I shall wash your gut-strings, If you but stay a while: yet, honest rascals, If you'll let us have t'other crash, The widow and I'll keep time; there's for your pains. [_Throws them down money._