Mel. Himself.
Lyz. Well, wench; thou hadst a servant, one Fabius; what hast thou done with him? 29
Mel. I done with him? Out of him, puppy! By this feather, his beard is directly brick-colour, and perfectly fashion’d like the husk of a chestnut; he kisses with the driest lip. Fie on him!
Cel. O, but your servant Quadratus, the absolute courtier!
Mel. Fie, fie! Speak no more of him: he lives by begging. He is a fine courtier, flatters admirable, kisses “fair madam,” smells surpassing sweet; wears and holds up the arras, supports the tapestry, when I pass into the presence, very gracefully; and I assure you—— 40
Luc. Madam, here is your shuttlecock.
Mel. Sister, is not your waiting-wench rich?
Cel. Why, sister, why?
Mel. Because she can flatter. Prithee call her not: she has twenty-four hours to madam[515] yet. Come, you; you prate: i’faith, I’ll toss you from post to pillar!
Cel. You post and I pillar.