Gond. Then pardon me, if I betray the faults
Of one, I love more dearly than my self,
Since opening hers, I shall betray mine own:
But I will bring you where she now intends
Not to be virtuous: pride and wantonness,
That are true friends indeed, though not in shew,
Have entr'd on her heart, there she doth bathe,
And sleek her hair, and practise cunning looks
To entertain me with; and hath her thoughts
As full of lust, as ever you did think
Them full of modesty.
Duke. Gondarino, lead on, we'll follow thee. [Exeunt.
Actus Quartus. Scæna Secunda.
Enter Pandar.
Pan. Here hope I to meet my Citizen, and [here] hopes he to meet his [Scholar]; I am sure I am grave enough, to his eyes, and knave enough to deceive him: I am believ'd to conjure, raise storms, and devils, by whose power I can do wonders; let him believe so still, belief hurts no man; I have an honest black cloak, for my knavery, and a general pardon for his foolery, from this present day, till the day of his breaking. Is't not a misery, and the greatest of our age, to see a handsome, young, fair enough, and well mounted wench, humble her self, in an old stammel petticoat, standing possest of no more fringe, than the street can allow her: her upper parts so poor and wanting, that ye may see her bones through her bodies: shooes she would have, if [her] Captain were come over, and is content the while to devote her self to antient slippers. These premisses well considered, Gentlemen, will move, they make me melt I promise ye, they stirr me much: and wer't not for my smooth, soft, silken Citizen, I would quit this transitory Trade, get me an everlasting Robe, sear up my conscience, and turn Serjeant. But here he comes, is mine as good as prize: Sir Pandarus be my speed, ye are most fitly met Sir.
Enter Mercer.
Mer. And you as well encount'red, what of this heir? hath your Books been propitious?
Pan. Sir, 'tis done, she's come, she's in my house, make your self apt for Courtship, stroke up your stockings, loose not an inch of your legs goodness; I am sure ye wear socks.
Mer. There your Books fail ye Sir, in truth I wear no socks.
Pand. I would you had, Sir, it were the sweeter grace for your legs; get on your Gloves, are they perfum'd?