_Jaco._ O ill-nursed custom! No sooner is the wealthy merchant dead, His wife left great in fair possessions, But giddy rumour grasps it 'twixt his teeth, And shakes it 'bout our ears. Then thither flock A rout of crazèd fortunes, whose crack'd states Gape to be solder'd up by the rich mass Of the deceased labours; and now and then 170 The troop of "I beseech," and "I protest," And "Believe it, sweet," is mix'd with two or three Hopeful, well-stock'd, neat clothèd citizens. _Ran._ But as we see the son of a divine Seldom proves preacher, or a lawyer's son Rarely a pleader (for they strive to run A various fortune from their ancestors), So 'tis right geason[414] for the merchant's widow To be the citizen's loved second spouse. _Jaco._ Variety of objects please us still; 180 One dish, though ne'er so cook'd, doth quickly fill, When diverse cates the palate's sense delight, And with fresh taste creates new appetite; Therefore my widow she cashiers the blacks,[415] Forswears, turns off the furr'd-gowns, and surveys The beadroll of her suitors, thinks and thinks, And straight her questing thoughts springs up a knight; Have after then amain, the game's a-foot, The match clapp'd up; tut, 'tis the knight must do't! _Ran._ Then must my pretty peat[416] be fann'd and coach'd? 190 _Jaco._ Muff'd, mask'd, and ladied, with "my more than most sweet madam!" But how long doth this perfume of sweet madam last? Faith, 'tis but a wash scent. My riotous sir Begins to crack jests on his lady's front, Touches her new-stamp'd gentry, takes a glut, Keeps out, abandons home, and spends and spends, Till stock be melted; then, sir, takes up[417] here, Takes up there, till nowhere ought is left. Then for the Low Countries, hey for the French! And so (to make up rhyme) good night, sweet wench. _Ran._ By blessedness we'll stop this fatal lot. 201 _Jaco._ But how? But how? _Ran._ Why, stay, let's think a plot. _And._ Was not Albano Beletzo honourable-rich? _Ran._ Not peer'd in Venice, for birth, fortune, love. _And._ Tis scarce three months since fortune gave him dead. _Ran._ In the black fight in the Venetian gulf. _And._ You hold a truth. _Ran._ Now what a giglet[418] is this Celia? _And._ To match so sudden, so unworthily? _Ran._ Why, she might have---- _And._ Who might not Celia have? 210 The passionate enamour'd Jacomo. _Jaco._ The passionate enamour'd Jacomo! _And._ Of honour'd lineage, and not meanly rich. _Ran._ The sprightful Piso; the great Florentine, Aurelius Tuber. _And._ And to leave these all, And wed a wand'ring knight, Sir Laverdure, A God knows what! _Ran._ Brother, she shall not. Shall our blood be mongrell'd With the corruption of a straggling French?