Tim. Nay, they say
You have a good wit, lady, and I can find it
As soon as another. I in my time have been
O' th' university, and should have been a scholar.
Aur. By the size of your wit, sir, had you kept
To that profession, I can foresee
You would have been a great persecutor of nature
And great consumer of rush candles, with
As small success as if a tortoise should
Day and night practise to run races. Having
Contemplated yourself into ill-looks,
In pity to so much affliction,
You might ha' pass'd for learned; and't may be,
If you had fallen out with the Muses, and
'Scap'd poetry, you might have risen to scarlet.
Tim. Here's a rare lady with all my heart. By this
Light, gentlemen, now have I no more language
Than a dumb parrot. A little more, she'll jeer me
Into a fellow that turns upon his toe
In a steeple, and strikes quarters![206]
Bright. And why should you
Be now so dainty of your lips? Verily,
They are not virgins: they have tasted man.
Aur. And may again; but then I'll be secur'd
For the sweet air o' th' parties. If you
Will bring it me confirm'd under the hands
Of four sufficient ladies, that you are
Clean men, you may chance kiss my woman.
New. Lady,
Our lips are made of the same clay that yours [are,]
And have not been refused.
Aur. 'Tis right, you are
Two inns-of-court men.
Bright. Yes, what then?
Aur. Known Cladders[207]
Through all the town.
Bright. Cladders?