PYE. But if it so come to pass (as for your fair sakes I wish it may) that this presage of your strange fortunes be prevented by that accident of death and blood-shedding which I before told you of: take heed upon your lives that two of you, which have vow’d never to marry, seek you out husbands with all present speed, and you, the third, that have such a desire to out-strip chastity, look you meddle not with a husband. MOLL. A double torment. PYE. The breach of this keeps your father in Purgatory, and the punishments that shall follow you in this world would with horror kill the Ear should hear ’em related. WIDDOW. Marry? why I vowed never to marry. FRANCES. And so did I. MOLL. And I vowed never to be such an Ass, but to marry: what a cross Fortune’s this! PYE. Ladies, tho I be a Fortune-teller, I cannot better Fortunes; you have ’em from me as they are revealed to me: I would they were to your tempers, and fellows with your bloods, that’s all the bitterness I would you. WIDDOW. Oh, ’tis a just vengeance for my husband’s hard purchases. PYE. I wish you to be-think your selves, and leave ’em. WIDDOW. I’ll to Sir Godfrey, my Brother, and acquaint him with these fearful presages. FRANCES. For, Mother, they portend losses to him. WIDDOW. Oh, aye, they do, they do. If any happy issue crown thy words, I will reward thy cunning. PYE. ’Tis enough Lady; I wish no higher. [Exit Widdow and Frances.] MOLL. Dumb! and not marry, worse! Neither to speak, nor kiss, a double curse. [Exit.] PYE. So all this comes well about yet. I play the Fortune-teller as well as if I had had a Witch to my Grannam: for by good happiness, being in my Hostesses’ Garden, which neighbours the Orchard o the Widdow, I laid the hole of mine ear to a hole in the wall, and heard ’em make these vows, and speak those words upon which I wrought these advantages; and to encourage my forgery the more, I may now perceive in ’em a natural simplicity which will easily swallow an abuse, if any covering be over it: and to confirm my former presage to the Widdow, I have advised old Peter Skirmish, the Soldier, to hurt Corporal Oath upon the Leg; and in that hurry I’ll rush amongst ’em, and in stead of giving the Corporal some Cordial to comfort him, I’ll power into his mouth a potion of a sleepy Nature, to make him seem as dead; for the which the old soldier being apprehended, and ready to be born to execution, I’ll step in, and take upon me the cure of the dead man, upon pain of dying the condemned’s death: the Corporal will wake at his minute, when the sleepy force has wrought it self, and so shall I get my self into a most admired opinion, and under the pretext of that cunning, beguile as I see occasion: and if that foolish Nicholas Saint Tantlings keep true time with the chain, my plot will be sound, the Captain delivered, and my wits applauded among scholars and soldiers for ever. [Exit Pye-board.] SCENE II. A Garden. [Enter Nicholas Saint Tantlings with the chain.]