Phil. I would I were a man for his sake.
Ire. So you told him, and he, still courteous for all your anger, promised to give you what you wanted of a man, or teach you how to make one.
Her. Thou wilt never be old, wench, if thou still keep'st this humour.
Ire. Not a sigh older these seven years, if't please Sir Cupid; for he blows our bellows. [Enter Ergasto and Cleon.] But look, yonder's your servant, there's no starting now; you must stand to't. But before he comes to interrupt us, observe with me, how in that deep band, short cloak, and his great boots, he looks three storeys high, and his head is the garret where he keeps nothing but lists of horse-matches, and some designs for his next clothes.
Phil. Where is his cellarage?
Ire. He'll show it thee himself, dear Phillida, and thine too, if thou wilt have him! But they make to us!
Erg. Madam, will you honour me and this gentleman with a sight of that which doth enrich the world?
Her. You will not take our excuses, if we should say you find us now with more advantage to our beauties.
Erg. So breaks the morning forth, but the sun's rays are not so quick and piercing as your eyes, for they descend even to our hearts.