On. And Devil melancholly possesses me now.
Unc. Cross him not in this fit I advise you Sir.
On. Dye crimson Rose, that didst adorn these cheeks,
For ytch of love is now broke forth on me.
Unc. Poor Boy, 'tis true: his wrists and hands are scabby.
On. Burn eyes out in your sockets, sink and stink:
Teeth I will pick ye to the very bones,
Hang hair like Hemp, or like the Isling Curs,
For never Powder, nor the Crisping-iron
Shall touch these dangling locks—oh—Ruby lips,
Love hath to you been like Wine-vinegar,
Now you look wan and pale, lips, ghosts ye are,
And my disgrace sharper than Mustard-seed.
Cra. How like a Chaundler he do's vent his passions,
Risum teneatis?
On. Well sung the Poet,
Love is a golden ubo, full of Dreams:
That ripen'd breaks, and fills us with extreams.
Tut. A gold buble, pupill, Oh gross solæcisme
To chaster eares that understand the Latine.
On. I will not be corrected now:
I am in love, revenge is now the Cud
That I do chaw: I'll challenge him.
Cra. I marry Sir.