angry women of Abington.
Coom. Sbloud ye shall take more then will doe yee good,
Or Ile make ye clap vnder the table.
Or Ile make ye clap vnder the table.
Nich. Nay, I hope, as I haue temperance to forbeare drinke
so haue I patience to endure drinke, Ile do as company doth,
for whē a mā doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done,
so haue I patience to endure drinke, Ile do as company doth,
for whē a mā doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done,
Coomes. Ha my resolued Nicke Frolagozene, fill the potte
Hostesse, swounes you whore, Harry Hooke's a rascall: helpe
me but carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it Ifaith.
Exeunt.
Enter Phillip.
Hostesse, swounes you whore, Harry Hooke's a rascall: helpe
me but carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it Ifaith.
Exeunt.
Enter Phillip.
Phil. By this I thinke, the letter is deliuered,
And twill be shortly time that I step in,
And wooe their fauours for my sisters fortune,
And yet I need not, she may doe as well,
But yet not better, as the case doth stand,
Betweene our mothers it may make them friends,
Nay I would sweare that she would doe as well,
Were she a stranger to one quality,
But they are so acquainted, theil nere part,
Why she will floute the deuill and make blush
The boldest face of man, that euer man saw,
He that hath best opinion of his wit,
And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter Iestes,
Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so euer,
Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite,
Her wit's a sunne, that melts him downe like butter,
And makes him sit at table Pancake wise,
Flat, flat, and nere a word to say,
Yet sheele not leaue him then, but like a tyrant,
Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man,
And so be bang him with dry bobs and scoffes,
When he is downe, most cowardly good faith,
As I haue pittied the poore patient.
There came a Farmers sonne a wooing to her,
A proper man, well landed too he was,
A man that for his wit need not to aske,
What time a yeere twere good to sow his Oates,
Nor yet his Barley, no nor when to reape,
To plowe his Fallowes, or to fell his Trees.
And twill be shortly time that I step in,
And wooe their fauours for my sisters fortune,
And yet I need not, she may doe as well,
But yet not better, as the case doth stand,
Betweene our mothers it may make them friends,
Nay I would sweare that she would doe as well,
Were she a stranger to one quality,
But they are so acquainted, theil nere part,
Why she will floute the deuill and make blush
The boldest face of man, that euer man saw,
He that hath best opinion of his wit,
And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter Iestes,
Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so euer,
Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite,
Her wit's a sunne, that melts him downe like butter,
And makes him sit at table Pancake wise,
Flat, flat, and nere a word to say,
Yet sheele not leaue him then, but like a tyrant,
Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man,
And so be bang him with dry bobs and scoffes,
When he is downe, most cowardly good faith,
As I haue pittied the poore patient.
There came a Farmers sonne a wooing to her,
A proper man, well landed too he was,
A man that for his wit need not to aske,
What time a yeere twere good to sow his Oates,
Nor yet his Barley, no nor when to reape,
To plowe his Fallowes, or to fell his Trees.
Well
