Cri. Monstrous ones: I am, as many other are, pieced above and pieced beneath.
Tyse. Still the best part in the——
Cri. And yet all will scarce make me so high as one of the giants’[56] stilts that stalks before my Lord Mayor’s pageant:
Tyse. By the Lord, so I thought ’twas for something Mistress Joyce jested at thy high insteps. 121
Cri. She might well enough, and long enough, before I would be ashamed of my shortness: what I made or can mend myself I may blush at; but what nature put upon me, let her be ashamed for me, I ha’ nothing to do with it. I forget my beauty.
Tyse. Faith, Joyce is a foolish bitter creature.
Cri. A pretty mildewed wench she is.
Tyse. And fair——
Cri. As myself! 130
Tyse. O you forget your beauty now.