+Ear.+ And to-morrow must be the day, Moll; both of a day: one dinner shall serve. We may have store of little ones; we must save for our family. +Moll.+ Good sir, what rashness was parent to this madness? marry an old man--Ear-lack the informer! +Blood.+ Madness! You're a whore. +Ear.+ Is she a whore, Sim? +Sim.+ She must be your wife, I tell----- +Blood.+ An arrant whore, to refuse Master Innocent Ear-lack of Rogue-land!--that for his dwelling: next, that he doth inform now and then against enormities, and hath been blanketed--it may be, pumped in's time; yet the world knows he does it not out of need: he's of mighty means, but takes delight now and then to trot up and down to avoid idleness, you whore. +Sim.+ Good sir! +Ear.+ Pray, father! +Moll.+ This wound wants oil. Good sir, in all my paths I will make you my guide; I was only startled With the suddenness of the marriage, In that I knew that this deserving gentleman And I had never so much conference, Whereby this coal of Paphos--by the rhetoric Of his love-stealing, heart-captivating language-- Might be blown into a flame. +Ear.+ Does she take tobacco, father? +Blood.+ No, no, man; these are out of ballads; she has all the Garland of Good-will[48] by heart. +Ear.+ Snails, she may sing me asleep o' nights then, Sim. +Sim.+ Why, right, sir; and then 'tis but tickling you o' th' forehead with her heels, you are awake again, and ne'er the worse man. +Moll.+ Is he but five years older than yourself, sir? +Ear.+ Nay, I want a week and three days of that too. +Blood.+ I'll tell thee an old saw for't, girl-- _Old say he be, old blades are best, Young hearts are never old._ +Ear.+ Ha, ha! +Blood.+ _Gold is great glee, gold begets rest, What fault is found in gold?_ +Sim.+ I will answer presently, sir, with another saw. +Blood.+ Let's ha't, let's ha't. +Ear.+ Mark, Moll. +Sim.+ _Young? say she be young, young mutton's sweet, Content is above gold; If, like an old cock, he with young mutton meet, He feeds like a cuckold._ +Blood.+ A very pretty pithy one, I protest; look, an' Moll do not laugh: shalt have a pair of gloves for that. What leather dost love? +Sim.+ Calf, sir; sheep's too simple for me. +Blood.+ Nay, 'tis a witty notable knave; he should never serve me else. _Enter +John+ with a letter._ +John.+ My mistress remembers her love, and requests you would inure her so much to your patience as to read that. +Blood.+ Love-letters, love-lies: dost mark, Sim; these women are violent, Sim. Whilst I read the lie,[49] do you rail to him upon the brewer: swear he has deceived us, and save a cup of beer by't. +Sim.+ I will not save you a cup at that rate, sir.