Mel. Even such a one was my Antonio.
[The cornets sound a senet.
Ros. By my nine and thirtieth servant, sweet,
Thou art in love; but stand on tiptoe,[63] fair;
Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, i’faith.
Enter Matzagente; Piero meets him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound a flourish: they two stand, using seeming compliments, whilst the scene passeth above.
Mel. St. Mark, St. Mark! what kind of thing appears?
Ros. For fancy’s passion, spit upon him! Fie,
His face is varnish’d. In the name of love,
What country bred that creature?
Mel. What is he, Flavia? 120
Fla. The heir of Milan, Signior Matzagente.
Ros. Matzagente! now, by my pleasure’s hope,
He is made like a tilting-staff; and looks
For all the world like an o’er-roasted pig:
A great tobacco-taker too, that’s flat;
For his eyes look as if they had been hung
In the smoke of his nose.
Mel. What husband will he prove, sweet Rossaline?