Bel. Her man? I prithee, run and call him quickly. This villain! I suspect him ever since I found him hid behind the tapestry.
Re-enter Fresco.
Fresco! th'art welcome, Fresco. Leave us. [Exit Servant.] Dost hear, Fresco? Is not my wife at thy mistress's?
Fres. I know not, my lord.
Bel. I prithee tell me, Fresco—we are private—tell me:
Is not thy mistress a good wench?
Fres. How means your lordship that? A wench o' the trade?
Bel. Yes, faith, Fresco; e'en a wench o' the trade.
Fres. O no, my lord. Those falling diseases cause baldness, and my mistress recovers the loss of hair, for she is a periwig maker.
Bel. And nothing else?
Fres. Sells falls, and tires, and bodies for ladies, or so.