Bell. Let me have your ivory comb.
Mal. Where is your wooden one—the one from Paris?
Bell. Did you not hear me yesterday scolding Gomezulus?
Mal. Do you call beating a person scolding him?
Bell. This was the reason. He had broken five or six of the thick and of the thin teeth of the comb—almost broken them all to pieces.
Mal. I have lately read that a certain author stated that we should comb the head with an ivory comb forty times from the forehead to the top and then to the back of the head. What are you doing? That is not combing but stroking. Let me have the comb.
Bell. Nor is that combing, but shaving or sweeping. I think your head is made of bricks.
Mal. And I think yours is of butter—so that you dare not touch it closely.
Bell. Are you willing, then, that we should have a butting match with our heads?