Beaufort, Frank, Servant.      [To Them.

I thank you all; I thank thee, Father Fly.
Madam, my Cousin, you look discompos'd,
I have been bold with a Sallad, after Supper,
O' your own Lettice here.     Lad. You have, my Lord.
But Laws of Hospitality, and fair Rites,
Would have made me acquainted.
    Bea. I' your own House,
I do acknowledge: Else I much had trespass'd.
But in an Inn, and publick, where there is License
Of all Community: a Pardon o' course
May be su'd out.     Lat. It will, My Lord, and carry it.
I do not see, how any storm, or tempest
Can help it now.     Pru. The thing being done, and past,
You bear it wisely, and like a Lady of Judgement.
    Bea. She is that Secretary Pru.     Pru. Why Secretary,
My wise Lord? is your Brain lately married!
    Bea. Your Reign is ended, Pru, no Sovereign now:
Your date is out, and Dignity expir'd.
    Pru. I am annul'd, how can I treat with Lovel,
Without a new Commision?
    Lad. Thy Gown's Commision.
    Host. Have Patience, Pru, expect, bid the Lord Joy.
    Pru. An this brave Lady too. I wish them Joy.
    Pei. Joy.     Jor. Joy.     Jug. All Joy.
    Hos. I, the House full of Joy.
    Fly. Play the Bels; Fidlers, crack your strings with Joy.
    Pru. But Lady Letice, you shewd a neglect
Un-to-be-pardon'd, to 'ards my Lady, your Kinswoman
Not to advise with her.     Bea. Good politick Pru,
Urge not your State-advice, your after-wit;
'Tis near upbraiding. Get our Bed ready, Chamberlain,
And Host, a Bride-cup, you have rare Conceits,
And good Ingredients; ever an old Host
Upo' the Road, has his provocative Drinks.
    Lat. He is either a good Baud, or a Physician.
    Bea. 'Twas well he heard you not, his back was turn'd.
A bed, the Genial Bed, a brace of Boys
To night I play for.     Pru. Give us points, my Lord.
    Bea. Here, take 'em, Pru, my Cod-piece Point, and all.
I ha' Clasps, my Letice arms, here take 'em, boys.
What, is the Chamber ready? Speak, why stare you
On one another?     Jor. No, Sir.     Bea. And why no?
    Jor. My Master has forbid it. He yet doubts
That you are married.     Bea. Ask his Vicar General,
His Fly, here.
    Fly. I must make that good, they are married.
    Host. But I make it bad, my hot young Lord.
Gi' him his Doublet again, the air is piercing;
You may take the cold, my Lord. See whom you ha' married,
Your Host's Son, and a Boy.     Fly. You are abus'd.
    Lad. Much Joy, my lord.     Pru. If this be your Laetitia,

She'll prove a counterfeit Mirth, and a clip'd Lady.
    Ser. A Boy, a Boy; my Lord has married a Boy.
    Lat. Raise all the House in shot, and laughter, a Boy!
    Host. Stay, what is here! peace, Rascals, stop your throats.