Pan. This Fly is caught, is mash'd already, I will suck him, and lay him by.
Boy. Muffle your self in your cloak by any means, 'tis a receiv'd thing among gallants, to walk to their leachery, as though they had the rheum, 'twas well you brought not your horse.
Laz. Why Boy?
Boy. Faith Sir, 'tis the fashion of our Gentry, to have their horses wait at door like men, while the beasts their Masters, are within at rack and manger, 'twould have discover'd much.
Laz. I will lay by these habits, forms, and grave respects of what I am, and be my self; only my appetite, my fire, my soul, my being, my dear appetite shall go along with me, arm'd with whose strength, I fearless will attempt the greatest danger dare oppose my fury: I am resolv'd where ever that thou art, most sacred dish, hid from unhallow'd eyes, to find thee out.
Be'st thou in Hell, rap't by Proserpina,
To be a rival in black Pluto's love;
Or mov'st thou in the heavens, a form Divine:
Lashing the lazie Sphear,
Or if thou be'st return'd to thy first Being,
Thy mother Sea, the[re] will I seek thee forth.
Earth, Air, nor Fire,
Nor the black shades below shall bar my sight
So daring is my powerful appetite.
Boy. Sir, you may save this long voyage, and take a shorter cut: you have forgot your self, the fish head's here, your own imaginations have made you mad.
Laz. Term it a jealous fury, good my boy.
Boy. Faith Sir term it what you will, you must use other terms [ere] you can get it.
Laz. The looks of my sweet love are fair,
Fresh and feeding as the air.