_Enter +Plotwell+ and +Roseclap+._
+Plot.+ Sir, I am sorry such a light offence
Should make such deep impressions in you: but that
Which more afflicts me than the loss of my
Great hopes, is that y' are likely to be abused, sir;
Strangely abused, sir, by one Bannswright. I hear
You are to marry----
+Ware.+ Did you hear so?
+Plot.+ Madam Aurelia's woman.
+Ware.+ What of her, sir?
+Plot.+ Why, sir, I thought it duty to inform you,
That you would better match a ruin'd bawd;
One ten times cured by sweating and the tub,[260]
Or pain'd now with her fiftieth ache, whom not
The pow'r of usquebaugh, or heat of fevers
Quickens enough to wish; one of such looks,
The judges of assize, without more proof,
Suspect, arraign, and burn for witchcraft.
+Ware.+ Why, pray?
+Plot.+ For she being pass'd all motions, impotence will be a
kind of chastity, and you
Might have her to yourself: but here is one
Knows this to be----
+Ware.+ An arrant whore?
+Rose.+ I see
You have heard of her, sir. Indeed she has
Done penance thrice.
+Ware.+ How say you, penance?
+Rose.+ Yes, sir, and should have suffer'd----
+Ware.+ Carting, should she not?
+Rose.+ The marshal had her, sir.
+Ware.+ I sweat, I sweat!
+Rose.+ She's of known practice, sir: the clothes she wears
Are but her quarter's sins: she has no linen
But what she first offends for.
+Ware.+ O bless'd Heaven,
Look down upon me!
+Plot.+ Nay, sir, which is more,
She has three children living; has had four.
+Ware.+ How! children! Children, say you?
+Plot.+ Ask him, sir.
One by a Frenchman.
+Rose.+ Another by a Dutch.
+Plot.+ A third by a Moor, sir; born of two colours,
Just like a serjeant's man.
+Ware.+ Why, she has known, then,
All tongues and nations?
+Rose.+ She has been lain with farther
Than ever Coriat travell'd, and lain in
By two parts of the map, Afric and Europe,
As if the state maintain'd her to allay
The heat of foreigners.
+Ware.+ O, O, O, O!
+Plot.+ What ail you, sir?
+Ware.+ O nephew, I am not well, I am not well!
+Plot.+ I hope you are not married?
+Ware.+ It is too true.
+Rose.+ God help you, then!
+Ware.+ Amen. Nephew, forgive me.
+Rose.+ Alas! good gentleman!
+Plot.+ Would you trust Bannswright, sir?
+Ware.+ Nephew, in hell
There's not a torment for him. O that I could
But see that cheating rogue upon the rack now!
I'd give a thousand pound for every stretch,
That should enlarge the rogue through all his joints,
And but just show him hell, and then recall
His broken soul, and give him strength to suffer
His torture often. I would have the rascal
Think hanging a relief, and be as long
A-dying as a chopp'd eel, that the devil
Might have his soul by pieces. Who's here? a sailor?