Tho. What, hast thou made up twenty yet?
Hyl. By'r Lady,
I have giv'n a shrewd push at it, for as I take it,
The last I fell in love with, scor'd sixteen.
Tho. Look to your skin, Rambaldo the sleeping Gyant
Will rowze and rent thee piece-meal.
Sam. He ne'r perceives 'em
Longer than looking on.
Thom. Thou never meanest then
To marry any that thou lov'st?
Hyl. No surely,
Nor any wise man I think; marriage?
Would you have me now begin to be prentice,
And learn to cobble other mens old Boots?
Sam. Why, you may take a Maid.
Hyl. Where? can you tell me?
Or if 'twere possible I might get a Maid,
To what use should I put her? look upon her,
Dandle her upon my knee, and give her sugar-sops?
All the new Gowns i'th' Parish will not please her,
If she be high bred, for there's the sport she aims at,
Nor all the feathers in the Fryars.
Thom. Then take a Widow,
A good stanch wench, that's tith.
Hyl. And begin a new order,
Live in a dead mans monument, not I, Sir,
I'll keep mine own road, a true mendicant;
What pleasure this day yields me, I never covet
To lay up for the morrow; and methinks ever
Anothers mans Cook dresses my diet neatest.