Winw. Why, how now, master Littlewit! measuring of lips, or moulding of kisses? which is it?
Lit. Troth, I am a little taken with my Win’s dressing here: does it not fine, master Winwife? How do you apprehend, sir? she would not have worn this habit. I challenge all Cheapside to shew such another: Moorfields, Pimlico-path, or the Exchange, in a summer evening, with a lace to boot, as this has. Dear Win, let master Winwife kiss you. He comes a wooing to our mother, Win, and may be our father perhaps, Win. There’s no harm in him, Win.
Winw. None in the earth, master Littlewit.
[Kisses her.
Lit. I envy no man my delicates, sir.
Winw. Alas, you have the garden where they grow still! A wife here with a strawberry breath, cherry lips, apricot cheeks, and a soft velvet head, like a melicotton.
Lit. Good, i’faith! now dulness upon me, that I had not that before him, that I should not light on’t as well as he! velvet head!
Winw. But my taste, master Littlewit, tends to fruit of a later kind; the sober matron, your wife’s mother.
Lit. Ay, we know you are a suitor, sir; Win and I both wish you well: By this license here, would you had her, that your two names were as fast in it as here are a couple! Win would fain have a fine young father-i’-law, with a feather; that her mother might hood it and chain it with mistress Overdo. But you do not take the right course, master Winwife.