At this fresh sight.

SIR GODFREY.
Sister--

WIDOW.
Away,
All honesty with him is turn'd to clay.
Oh my sweet husband, oh--

FRANCES.
My dear father!

[Exeunt mother and Frances.]

MOLL.
Here's a pulling, indeed! I think my Mother weeps for all
the women that ever buried husbands; for if from time to
time all the Widowers' tears in England had been bottled
up, I do not think all would have filled a three-half-penny
Bottle. Alas, a small matter bucks a hand-kercher,--and
sometimes the spittle stands to nie Saint Thomas a Watrings.
Well, I can mourn in good sober sort as well as another;
but where I spend one tear for a dead Father, I could give
twenty kisses for a quick husband.

[Exit Moll.]

SIR GODFREY.
Well, go thy ways, old Sir Godfrey, and thou mayest be