Clor. Yes, and shall tickle you too,
You understand me?
Fran. By my troth thou art grown
A strange lewd wench: I must e'ne leave thy company,
Thou wilt spoil me else.
Clor. Nay, thou art spoil'd to my hand;
Hadst thou been free, as a good wench ought to be,
When I went first a birding for thy Love,
And roundly said, that is the man must do it,
I had done laughing many an hour agoe.
Fra. And what dost thou see in him, now thou knowst him
To be thus laught at?
Clor. Prethee be not angry
And I'le speak freely to thee.
Fran. Do, I will not.
Clor. Then as I hope to have a handsom husband,
This fellow in mine eye, (and Frank I am held
To have a shrewd ghess at a pretty fellow)
Appears a strange thing.
Fra. Why, how strange for Gods sake?
He is a man, and one that may content
(For any thing I see) a right good woman:
And sure I am not blind.
Clor. There lyes the question?
For, (but you say he is a man, and I
Will credit you,) I should as soon have thought him
Another of Gods creatures; out upon him,
His body, that can promise nothing
But laziness and long strides.
Fra. These are your eyes;
Where were they Clora, when you fell in love
With the old foot-man, for singing of Queen Dido?
And swore he look'd in his old velvet trunks
And his slic't Spanish Jerkin, like Don John?
You had a parlous judgment then, my Clora.