Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima.
Enter Crates, Uncle, Tutor, and Onos.
Ono. Thinks he to carry her and live.
Cra. It seems so,
And she will carry him the story says.
On. Well, hum—
Have I for this thou fair but falsest fair
Stretch'd this same simple leg over the Sea?
What though my bashfulness, and tender years,
Durst ne're reveal my affection to thy teeth?
Deep love ne're tatles, and (say they) loves bit
The deeper dip'd, the sweeter still is it.
Tut. Oh, see the power of Love: he speaks in ryme.
Cra. Oh, love would make a dog howle in ryme:
Of all the Lovers yet I have heard or read
This is the strangest: but his Guardian,
And you his Tutor should inform him better,
Thinks he, that love is answer'd by instinct?
Tut. He should make means,
For certain Sir, his bashfulness undo's him,
For from his Cradle h'had a shameful face.
Thus walks he night and day, eats not a bit,
Nor sleeps one jot, but's grown so humerous;
Drinks Ale, and takes Tobacco as you see;
Wear's a Steeletto at his Codpeece close,
Stabs on the least occasion: stroaks his beard,
Which now he puts i'th posture of a T.
The Roman T. your T. beard is the fashion,
And twifold doth express the enamour'd Courtier,
As full as your fork-carving Travellor.
On. Oh, black clouds of discontent invellop me,
Garters fly off: go Hatband, bind the browes
Of some dull Citizen that fears to ake:
And Leg appear now in simplicity
Without the tra[pp]ings of a Courtier:
Burst Bttons, burst, your Bachelor is worm'd.
Cra. A worm-eaten Batchelor th'rt indeed.