+Mis. Mary.+ Now you shall see the dainty widow, the sweet widow, the delicate widow, that to-morrow morning must be our mother-in-law. +Tim.+ What, the widow Wag? +Sim.+ Yes, yes; she that dwells in Blackfriars, next to the sign of the Fool laughing at a feather.[3] +Mis. Mary.+ She, she; good brother, make yourself handsome, for my father will bring her hither presently. +Tim.+ Niggers-noggers, I thought he had been sick, and had not been up, Sim. +Sim.+ Why, so did I too; but it seems the widow took him at a better hand, and raised him so much the sooner. +Tim.+ While I tie my band, prythee stroke up my foretop a little: niggers, an' I had but dreamed of this an hour before I waked, I would have put on my Sunday clothes. 'Snails, my shoes are pale as the cheek of a stewed pander; a clout, a clout, Sim. +Sim.+ More haste the worse speed; here's ne'er a clout now. +Tim.+ What's that lies by the hooks? +Sim.+ This? 'tis a sumner's coat.[4] +Tim.+ Prythee, lend's a sleeve of that; he had a noble on't last night, and never paid me my bill-money. _Enter +Old Bloodhound+, the +Widow+, her +Maid+, and +Man+._[5] +Blood.+ Look, look, up[6] and ready; all is ready, widow. He is in some deep discourse with Sim, concerning moneys out to one or another. +Wid.+ Has he said his prayers, sir? +Blood.+ Prayer before providence! When did ye know any thrive and swell that uses it? He's a chip o' th' old block; I exercise him in the trade of thrift, by turning him to all the petty pawns. If they come to me, I tell them I have given over brokering, moiling for muck and trash, and that I mean to live a life monastic, a praying life: pull out the tale of Crœsus from my pocket, and swear 'tis called "Charity's Looking-Glass, or an exhortation to forsake the world." +Maid.+ Dainty hypocrite! [_Aside._ +Wid.+ Peace! +Blood.+ But let a fine fool that's well-feathered come, and withal good meat, I have a friend, it may be, that may compassionate his wants. I'll tell you an old saw[7] for't over my chimney yonder-- _A poor man seem to him that's poor, And prays thee for to lend; But tell the prodigal (not quite spent) Thou wilt procure a friend._ +Wid.+ Trust me, a thrifty saw. +Blood.+ Many will have virtuous admonitions on their walls, but not a piece in their coffers: give me these witty politic saws; and indeed my house is furnished with no other. +Wid.+ How happy shall I be to wed such wisdom! +Blood.+ Shalt bed it, shalt bed it, wench; shalt ha't by infusion. Look, look! _Enter a +Smith+._ +Smith.+ Save ye, Master Tim.