Mont. Then as I have a soul, I'll speak my conscience,
Give me more Wine, in vino veritas,
Here's to my self, and Montague have a care.
Lami. Speak to th' cause.
Mont. Yes Madam, first I'll begin to thee.
Lav. Have at us.
La-p. Now for a Psalm of mercy.
Mont. You good Monsieur, you that belye the noble name of Courtier, and think your claim good here, hold up your hand; your Worship is endited here, for a vain glorious fool.
Lav. Good, oh Sir.
Mont. For one whose wit
Lies in a ten pound wastcoat; yet not warm;
Ye have travell'd like a Fidler to make faces,
And brought home nothing but a case of tooth-picks.
You would be married, and no less than Ladies,
And of the best sort can serve you; thou Silk-worm,
What hast thou in thee to deserve this woman?
Name but the poorest piece of man, good manners,
There's nothing sound about thee, faith, th'ast none,
It lies pawn'd at thy Silk-man's, for so much Lace;
Thy credit with his wife cannot redeem it,
Thy cloaths are all the soul thou hast, for so
Thou sav'st them handsome for the next great tilting,
Let who will take the t'other, thou wert never christen'd
(Upon my conscience) but in Barbers water;
Thou art never out o'th' Bason, thou art rotten,
And if thou dar'st tell truth, thou wilt confess it;
—— Thy skin
Looks of a Chesnut colour, greaz'd with Amber,
All women that on earth do dwell, thou lov'st,
Yet none that understand love thee again,
But those that love the Spittle; get thee home
Poor painted Butter-flie, th[y] Summers past;
Go sweat, and eat dry Mutton, thou may'st live
To do so well yet; a bruis'd Chamber-Maid
May fall upon thee, and advance thy follies.
You have your sentence; now it follows Captain,
I treat of you.
La-p. Pray [God] I may deserve it.
Orl. Beshrew my heart, he speaks plain.