Mor. Thus nice Grace was at first, and you remember.
Tim. I would have ye know, housewife, I could have taken my coach, and fetched him one of the best pieces in Milan, and her husband should have looked after me, that's neighbours might have noted, and cried, Farewell, naunt,[151] commend me to mine uncle.
Mor. And yet from these perfumed fortunes Heaven defend you!
Abs. Perfumed, indeed.
Mor. Perfumed! I am a pander, a rogue, that hangs together like a beggar's rags, by geometry, if there were not three ladies swore yesterday that my mistress perfumed the coach! so they were fain to unbrace all the side-parts, to take in fresh air.
Tim. He tells you true; I keep no common company, I warrant ye. We vent no breathed ware here.
Abs. But have ye so many several women to answer so many men that come?
Mor. I'll answer that by demonstration. Have ye not observed the variation of a cloud? sometimes it will be like a lion, sometimes like a horse, sometimes a castle, and yet still a cloud.
Abs. True.
Mor. Why, so can we make one wench one day look like a country wench, another day like a citizen's wife, another day like a lady, and yet still be a punk.