Jun. With whoop, he has done wooing.
Petill. O my vex'd thief, art thou come home again?
Are thy brains perfect?
Jun. Sound as bels.
Petill. Thy back-worm
Quiet, and cast his sting, boy?
Jun. Dead, Petillius,
Dead to all folly, and now my anger only.
Pet. Why, that's well said: hang Cupid and his quiver,
A drunken brawling Boy; thy honour'd saint
Be thy ten shillings, Junius, there's the money,
And there's the ware; square dealing: this but sweats thee
Like a Mesh nag, and makes thee look pin buttock'd;
The other runs thee whining up and down
Like a pig in a storm, fills thy brains full of madness,
And shews thee like a long Lent, thy brave body
Turn'd to a tail of green-fish without butter.
Dec. When thou lov'st next, love a good cup of Wine,
A Mistress for a King, she leaps to kiss thee,
Her red and white's her own; she makes good blood,
Takes none away; what she heats sleep can help,
Without a groping Surgeon.
Jun. I am counsell'd,
And henceforth, when I doat again,—
Dem. Take heed,
Ye had almost paid for't.
Petill. Love no more great Ladies,
Thou canst not step amiss then; there's no delight in 'em;
All's in the whistling of their snacht up silks;
They're only made for handsome view, not handling;
Their bodies of so weak and wash a temper,
A rough pac'd bed will shake 'em all to pieces;
A tough hen pulls their teeth out, tyres their souls;
Plenæ rimarum sunt, they are full of rynnet,
And take the skin off where they are tasted; shun 'em,
They live in cullisses like rotten cocks
Stew'd to a tenderness, that holds no tack:
Give me a thing I may crush.