Land. Such rude gambols—
Const. To you?
Land. I, and so handle me, that oft I am forc'd
To fight of all four for my safety; there's the younger,
Don John, the arrantest Jack in all this City;
The other, Time has blasted, yet he will stoop,
If not o'rflown, and freely on the quarry;
Has been a Dragon in his days. But Tarmont,
Don Jenkin is the Devil himself, the dog-days,
The most incomprehensible Whore-master,
Twenty a night is nothing; Beggars, Broom-women,
And those so miserable, they look like famine,
Are all sweet Ladies in his drink.
Const. He's a handsome Gentleman;
Pity he should be master of such follies.
Land. He's ne'r without a noise of Sirynges
In's Pocket, those proclaim him; birding Pills,
Waters to cool his Conscience, in small Viols:
With thousand such sufficient emblems; the truth is,
Whose Chastity he chops upon he cares not,
He flies at all; Bastards upon my conscience,
He has now in making, multitudes; the last night
He brought home one; I pity her that bore it,
But we are all weak Vessels, some rich Woman
(For wise I dare not call her) was the mother,
For it was hung with Jewels; the bearing Cloath
No less than Crimson Velvet.
Const. How?
Land. 'Tis true, Lady.
Const. Was it a Boy too?
Land. A brave Boy; deliberation
And judgment shew'd in's getting, as I'll say for him,
He's as well paced for that sport—