'em, make 'em, or fair, or foul, rugged, or smooth, as his impression
serves, for he affirms, they are only lumps, and undigested pieces,
lickt over to a form by our affections, and then they show. The Lovers
let 'em pass.

_Enter_ Fountain, Bellamore, Hairbrain.

_Mer._ He might be one, he carries as much promise; they are
wondrous merry.

_Uncle._ O their hopes are high, Sir.

_Fount._ Is _Valentine_ come to Town?

_Bella._ Last night, I heard.

_Fount._ We miss him monstrously in our directions, for this Widow
is as stately, and as crafty, and stands I warrant you--

_Hair._ Let her stand sure, she falls before us else, come let's go
seek _Valentine_.

_Mer._ This Widow seems a Gallant.

_Uncle._ A goodly Woman, and to her handsomness she bears her
state, reserved, and great Fortune has made her Mistress of a full
means, and well she knows to use it.

_M[e]r._ I would _Valentine_ had her.