Theo. Is't not dangerous?
Methinks these woody thickets should harbor knaves.
Die. I fear none but fair wenches; those are thieves,
May quickly rob me of my good conditions,
If they cry Stand once: but the best is Signiors
They cannot bind my hands: for any else,
They meet an equal knave, and there's my Passport:
I have seen fine sport in this place: had these three tongues,
They would tell ye pretty matters: do not you fear, though
They are not every daies delights.
Phil. What sport Sir?
Die. Why to say true, the sport of all sports.
Phil. What was't?
Die. Such turning up of Taffataes; and you know
To what rare whistling tunes they go, far beyond
A soft wind in the shrowds: such stand there,
And down i'th' other place; such supplications
And subdivisions for those toys their honors,
One, as ye are a Ge[n]tleman in this bush,
And oh sweet Sir, what mean ye? there's a bracelet,
And use me I beseech ye like a woman;
And her petition's heard: another scratches,
And cries she will die first, and then swounds: but certain
She is brought to life again, and does well after.
Another, save mine honor, oh mine honor,
My Husband serves the Duke, Sir, in his kitchen;
I have a cold pie for ye; fie, fie, fie Gentlemen,
Will nothing satisfie, where's my Husband?
Another cries, do ye see Sir how they use me,
Is there no Law for these things?
Theo. And good mine Host,
Do you call these fine sports?
Die. What should I call 'em,
They have been so call'd these thousand years and upwards.
Phil. But what becomes o'th' men?
Die. They're stript and bound,
Like so many Adams, with fig-leaves afore 'em,
And there's their innocence.