Enter Blunt drest in a Spanish Habit, looking very ridiculously; his Man adjusting his Band.
Man. ’Tis very well, Sir.
Blunt. Well, Sir, ’dsheartlikins I tell you ’tis damnable ill, Sir—a Spanish Habit, good Lord! cou’d the Devil and my Taylor devise no other Punishment for me, but the Mode of a Nation I abominate?
Belv. What’s the matter, Ned?
Blunt. Pray view me round, and judge— [Turns round.
Belv. I must confess thou art a kind of an odd Figure.
Blunt. In a Spanish Habit with a Vengeance! I had rather be in the Inquisition for Judaism, than in this Doublet and Breeches; a Pillory were an easy Collar to this, three Handfuls high; and these Shoes too are worse than the Stocks, with the Sole an Inch shorter than my Foot: In fine, Gentlemen, methinks I look altogether like a Bag of Bays stuff’d full of Fools Flesh.
Belv. Methinks ’tis well, and makes thee look en Cavalier: Come, Sir, settle your Face, and salute our Friends, Lady—
Blunt. Hah! Say’st thou so, my little Rover? [To Hell.] Lady—(if you be one) give me leave to kiss your Hand, and tell you, adsheartlikins, for all I look so, I am your humble Servant—A Pox of my Spanish Habit.
Will. Hark—what’s this? [Musick is heard to Play.