_Neece._ Unjust man, let my wrath reach her, As you owe virtue duty; [Cun. _falls on purpose_. Your cause trips you, Now _Minion_, you shall feel what loves rage is, Before you taste the pleasure; smile you false, Sir? _Cun._ How can I chuse? to see what pains you take, Upon a thing will never thank you for't. _Neece._ How? _Cun._ See what things you women be, Lady, When cloaths are taken for the best part of you? This was to show you, when you think I love you not, How y'are deceiv'd still, there the Moral lies, 'Twas a trap set to catch you, and the only bait To take a Lady nibling, is fine clothes; Now I dare boldly thank you for your love, I'm pretty well resolv'd in't by this fit, For a jealous ague alwayes ushers it. _Neece._ Now blessings still maintain this wit of thine, And I have an excellent fortune coming in thee, Bring nothing else I charge thee. _Cun._ Not a groat I warrant ye. _Neece._ Thou shalt be worthily welcome, take my faith for't, Next opportunity shall make us. _Cu[n]._ The old Gentlewoman has fool'd her revenge sweetly. _Neece._ 'Lass, 'tis her part, she knows her place so well yonder; Alwayes when Women jumpe upon threescore, Love shoves e'm from the chamber to the door. _Cun._ Thou art a precious she-wit. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quintus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Cunningame (_at one door_) Witty-Pate, Ruinous, L. Ruinous, _and_ Priscian (_at the other_.) _Cun._ Friend, met in the harvest of our designs, Not a thought but's busie. _Wit._ I knew it Man, And that made me provide these needful Reapers, Hooks, Rakers, Gleaners; we'll sing it home With a melodious Horne-pipe; this is the Bond, That as we further in your great affair, You'l suffer us to glean, pick up for crums, And if we snatch a handful from the sheaf, You will not look a churle on's. _Cun._ Friend, we'll share The sheaves of gold, only the Love Aker Shall be peculiar. _Wit._ Much good do you, Sir, Away, you know your way, and your stay; get you The Musick ready, while we prepare the dancers. _Ruin._ We are a consort of our selves. _Pris._ And can strike up lustily. _Wit._ You must bring _Sir Fop_. _Cun._ That's perfect enough. _Ruin._ Bring all the _Fops_ you can, the more, the better fare So the proverb runs backwards. [_Exeunt_ Ruin. _and_ Pris. _L. Ruin._ I'll bring the Ladies. [_Exit._ _Wit._ Do so first, and then the Fops will follow; I must to my Father, he must make one. [_Exit._ _Enter two_ Servants _with a Banquet_.