OLIVER. How's this? will the widow and you keep time? What trick? what quiddit? what fegary is this? My cashier'd son speak from the widow's chamber, And in his shirt? ha! sure she is not there! 'Tis so; she has took him in for pity, And now removes her chamber. I will home, On with my neatest robes, perfume my beard, Eat cloves, eringoes, and drink some _aqua vitæ_ To sweeten breath, and keep my weam from wambling; Then, like the month of March, come blust'ring in, Marry the widow, shake up this springal, And then, as quiet as a sucking lamb, Close by the widow will I rest all night[434]. As for my breath I have crotches and devices, "Ladies' rank breaths are often help'd with spices." _Enter_ ADRIANA _and another, strawing herbs_.[435] ADR. Come, straw apace; Lord, shall I never live To walk to church on flowers? O, 'tis fine, To see a bride trip it to church so lightly, As if her new chopines[436] would scorn to bruise A silly flower: and now, I pr'ythee, tell me, What flower thinkest thou is likest to a woman? 1ST WOMAN. A mary-gold, I think. ADR. Why a mary-gold? 1ST WOMAN. Because a little heat makes it to spread, And open wide his leaves. ADR. Th'art quite wide: A mary-gold doth open wide all day, And shuts most close at night: I hope thou knowest All wenches do the contrary: but, sirrah, How does thy uncle the old doctor? Dost think he'll be a bishop? 1ST WOMAN. O, questionless! For h'as got him a young wife, and carried her To court already: but now, I pr'ythee, say, Why will the widow wed so old a knight? ADR. Why? for his riches. 1ST WOMAN. For riches only? Why, riches cannot give her her delight. ADR. Riches, I hope, can soon procure her one Shall give her her delight: that's the devil. That's it, i'faith, makes us waiting-gentlewomen Live maids so long. 1ST WOMAN. Think you so? ADR. Yes, in faith. Married women quite have spoiled the market, By having secret friends besides their husbands; For if these married wives would be content To have but one a piece, I think, in troth, There would be doings enough for us all; And, till we get an act of parliament For that, our states are desperate. _Enter_ BOUTCHER _and_ CONSTANTIA. Come, straw apace. CON. So-ho-ho, master. BOUT. Boy. CON. In troth, I thought y' had been more fast asleep Than a midwife or a Puritan tailor At a Sunday evening's lecture: but, sir, Why do you rise so soon? BOUT. To see the widow.