Lap. Why then behold my Master-piece: see, see, Sir,
Here's all your Blows, and Blow-men whatsoever;
Set in their lively colours, givers, and takers.
1 Gent. Troth wondrous fine, Sir.
Lap. Nay, but mark the postures,
The standing of the takers, I admire more than the givers;
They stand scornfully, most contumeliously, I like not them,
Oh here's one cast into a comely Figure.
Clow. My Master means him there that's cast down headlong.
Lap. How sweetly does this fellow take his Dowst!
Stoops like a Cammel, that Heroick beast,
At a great load of Nutmegs; and how meekly
This other fellow here receives his Whirrit!
Clow. Oh Master, here's a fellow stands most gallantly,
Taking his kick in private, behind the hangings,
And raising up his hips to't. But oh, Sir,
How daintily this man lies trampled on!
Would I were in thy place, what e'er thou art:
How lovely he endures it!
1 Gent. But will not these things, Sir, be hard to practice, think you?
Lap. Oh, easie, Sir: I'll teach 'em in a Dance.
1 Gent. How? in a dance?
Lap. I'll lose my new place else,
What e'er it be; I know not what 'tis yet.