Oria. Sir, we must court ye, till we have obtain'd some little favour from those gracious eyes, 'tis but a kiss a piece.
Gond. I pronounce perdition to ye all; ye are a parcel of that damned crew that fell down with Lucifer, and here ye staid on earth to plague poor men; vanish, avaunt, I am fortified against your charms; heaven grant me breath and patience.
1 Lady. Shall we not kiss then?
Gond. No sear my lips with hot irons first, or stitch them up like a Ferrets: oh that this brunt were over!
2 Lady. Come, come, little rogue, thou art too maidenly by my troth, I think I must box thee till thou be'st bolder; the more bold, the more welcome: I prethee kiss me, be not afraid. [She sits on his knee.
Gond. If there be any here, that yet have so much of the fool left in them, as to love their mothers, let them [looke] on her, and loath them too.
2 Lady. What a slovenly little villain art thou, why dost thou not stroke up thy hair? I think thou ne'er comb'st it: I must have it lie in better order; so, so, so, let me see thy hands, are they wash'd?
Gond. I would th[e]y were loose for thy sake.
Duke. She tortures him admirably.
Count. The best that ever was.