SCENE II. Draws off to a room in Tickletext’s lodging, and discovers Mr. Tickletext a trimming, his Hair under a Cap, a Cloth before him: Petro snaps his fingers, takes away the Bason, and goes to wiping his face.
Tickletext and Petro.
Pet. Ah che Bella! Bella! I swear by these sparkling Eyes and these soft plump dimpled Cheeks, there’s not a Signiora in all Rome, cou’d she behold ‘em, were able to stand their Temptations; and for La Silvianetta, my life on’t, she’s your own.
Tick. Teze, teze, speak softly; but, honest Barberacho, do I, do I indeed look plump, and young, and fresh and—hah!
Pet. Ay, Sir, as the rosy Morn, young as old Time in his Infancy, and plump as the pale-fac’d Moon.
Tick. He—Why, this Travelling must needs improve a Man—Why, how admirably well-spoken your very Barbers are here—[Aside.]—But, Barberacho, did the young Gentlewoman say she lik’d me? did she, Rogue? did she?
Pet. A doated on you Signior, doated on you.
Tick. Why, and that’s strange now, in the Autumn of my Age too, when Nature began to be impertinent, as a Man may say, that a young Lady shou’d fall in love with me—[Aside.] Why, Barberacho, I do not conceive any great matter of Sin only in visiting a Lady that loves a man, hah.
Pet. Sin, Sir! ‘tis a frequent thing now-a-days in Persons of your Complexion.
Tick. Especially here at Rome too, where ‘tis no scandal.