Chair, Needle, Polish, Keep.

    Cha. Go, get a Nurse, procure her at what rate
You can: and out o' th' House with it, Son Needle.
It is a bad Commodity.

    Nee. Good mother,
I know it, but the best would now be made on't.

    Cha. And shall: you should not fret so, Mrs. Polish,
Nor you Dame Keep; my Daughter shall do well,
When she has tane my Cawdle. I ha' known
Twenty such breaches piec'd up, and made whole,
Without a bum of noise. You two fall out?
And tear up one another?

    Pol. Blessed Woman?
Blest be the peace-maker.

    Keep. The Pease-dresser!
I'll hear no Peace from her. I have been wrong'd,
So has my Lady, my good Ladies Worship,
And I will right her, hoping she'll right me.

    Pol. Good gentle Keep, I pray thee Mistriss Nurse,
Pardon my passion, I was misadvis'd,
Be thou yet better, by this grave sage Woman,
Who is the Mother of Matrons, and great Persons,
And knows the World.

    Keep. I do confess, she knows
Something -- and I know something. --

    Pol. Put your somethings
Together then.

    Cha. I, here's a chance fal'n out
You cannot help; less can this Gentlewoman;
I can and will, for both. First, I have sent
By chop-away; the cause gone, the fame ceaseth.
Then by my Cawdle, and my Cullice, I set
My Daughter on her Feet, about the House here:
She's young, and must stir somewhat for necessity,
Her youth will bear it out. She shall pretend,
T' have had a fit o' the Mother: there is all.
If you have but a Secretary Landress,
To blanch the Linnen -- Take the former counsels
Into you; Keep them safe i' your own breasts,
And make your Market of 'em at the highest.
Will you go peach, and cry your self a Fool

At Granam's Cross? be laugh'd at, and despis'd?
Betray a purpose, which the Deputy
Of a double Ward, or scarce his Alderman,
With twelve of the wisest Questmen could find out,
Imployed by the Authority of the City?
Come, come, be friends: and keep these Women-matters,
Smock-secrets to our selves, in our own verge.
We shall mar all, if once we ope the mysteries
O' the Tyring-house, and tell what's done within:
No Theatres are more cheated with apparances,
Or these Shop-lights, than th' Ages, and Folk in them,
That seem most curious.

    Pol. Breath of an Oracle!
You shall be my dear Mother; wisest Woman
That ever tip'd her Tongue, with point of reasons,
To turn her hearers! Mistriss keep, relent,
I did abuse thee; I confess to Penance:
And on my Knees ask thee forgivness.

    Cha. Rise,
She doth begin to melt, I see it. --

    Keep. Nothing
Griev'd me so much, as when you call'd me Bawd:
Witch did not trouble me, nor Gipsie; no,
Nor Beggar. Buat a Bwad, was such a name!

    Cha. No more rehearsals; repetitions
Make things the worse: The more we stir (you know
The Proverb, and it signifies a) stink.
What's done, and dead, let it be buried.
New hours will fit fresh handles, to new thoughts.