Enter Roger with a stool, cushion, looking-glass and chafing-dish; these being set down, he pulls out of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and two boxes, one with white, another with red paint; he places all things in order, and a candle by them, singing the ends of old ballads as he does it. At last Bellafront, as he rubs his cheek with the colours, whistles within.
Rog. Anon, forsooth.
Bell. [Within.] What are you playing the rogue about?
Rog. About you, forsooth; I’m drawing up a hole in your white silk stocking.
Bell. Is my glass there? and my boxes of complexion?
Rog. Yes, forsooth: your boxes of complexion are here, I think: yes, ’tis here: here’s your two complexions, and if I had all the four complexions, I should ne’er set a good face upon’t. Some men I see, are born, under hard-favoured planets as well as women. Zounds, I look worse now than I did before! and it makes her face glister most damnably. There’s knavery in daubing, I hold my life; or else this only female pomatum.
Enter Bellafront not full ready;[144] she sits down; curls her hair with her bodkin; and colours her lips.
Bell. Where’s my ruff and poker,[145] you blockhead?