WASPE. Nay, he knows too well I will not leave him, and that makes him presume: Well, sir, will you go now? if you have such an itch in your feet, to foot it to the Fair, why do you stop, am I [o'] your tarriers? go, will you go, sir? why do you not go? COKES. O Numps, have I brought you about? come, mistress Grace, and sister, I am resolute Bat, i'faith, still. GRACE. Truly, I have no such fancy to the Fair, nor ambition to see it: there's none goes thither of any quality or fashion. COKES. O Lord, sir! you shall pardon me, mistress Grace, we are enow of ourselves to make it a fashion; and for qualities, let Numps alone, he'll find qualities. QUAR. What a rogue in apprehension is this, to understand her language no better! WINW. Ay, and offer to marry her! Well, I will leave the chase of my widow for to-day, and directly to the Fair. These flies cannot, this hot season, but engender us excellent creeping sport. QUAR. A man that has but a spoonful of brain would think so.--Farewell, John. [_Exeunt Quarlous and Winwife._ LIT. Win, you see 'tis in fashion to go to the Fair, Win; we must to the Fair too, you and I, Win. I have an affair in the Fair, Win, a puppet-play of mine own making, say nothing, that I writ for the motion-man, which you must see, Win. MRS. LIT. I would I might, John; but my mother will never consent to such a profane motion, she will call it. LIT. Tut, we'll have a device, a dainty one: Now, Wit, help at a pinch, good Wit, come, come, good Wit, an it be thy will! I have it, Win, I have it i'faith, and 'tis a fine one. Win, long to eat of a pig, sweet Win, in the Fair, do you see, in the heart of the Fair, not at Pye-corner. Your mother will do any thing, Win, to satisfy your longing, you know; pray thee long presently; and be sick o' the sudden, good Win. I'll go in and tell her; cut thy lace in the mean time, and play the hypocrite, sweet Win. MRS. LIT. No, I'll not make me unready for it: I can be hypocrite enough, though I were never so strait-laced. LIT. You say true, you have been bred in the family, and brought up to't. Our mother is a most elect hypocrite, and has maintained us all this seven year with it, like gentlefolks. MRS. LIT. Ay, let her alone, John, she is not a wise wilful widow for nothing; nor a sanctified sister for a song. And let me alone too, I have somewhat of the mother in me, you shall see: fetch her, fetch her--[_Exit Littlewit._] Ah! ah! [_Seems to swoon._ _Re-enter LITTLEWIT with DAME PURECRAFT._ PURE. Now, the blaze of the beauteous discipline, fright away this evil from our house! how now, Win-the-fight, child! how do you? sweet child, speak to me. MRS. LIT. Yes, forsooth. PURE. Look up, sweet Win-the-fight, and suffer not the enemy to enter you at this door, remember that your education has been with the purest: What polluted one was it, that named first the unclean beast, pig, to you, child? MRS. LIT. Uh, uh!