Wit Without Money - The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher by Francis Beaumont
page 39 of 125 (31%)
page 39 of 125 (31%)
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Coach cushions.
_Short._ Will it not rain, no conjuring abroad, nor no devices to stop this journey? _Rog._ Why go now, why now, why o'th' sudden now? what preparation, what horses have we ready, what provision laid in i'th' Country? _Hum._ Not an egge I hope. _Rog._ No nor one drop of good drink boyes, there's the devil. _Short._ I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must come up again. _Hum._ What sayes the Steward? _Rog._ He's at's wits end, for some four hours since, out of his haste and providence, he mistook the Millars mangie mare, for his own nagge. _Short._ And she may break his neck, and save the journy. Oh _London_ how I love thee! _Hum._ I have no boots nor none I'le buy: or if I had, refuse me if I would venture my ability, before a Cloak-Bag, men are men. _Short._ For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle Lady of the Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my Gelding, with all her |
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