Give lords th’affront.—Is it, my Zephyrus, right?
Blushes the bolt’s-head?
Face: Like a wench with child, sir,
That were but now discover’d to her master.
Mammon: Excellent witty Lungs!—My only care is
Where to get stuff enough now, to project on;
This town will not half serve me.
Face: No, sir? Buy the covering off o’ churches.
Mammon: That’s true.
Face: Yes.