Rog. Here she comes now.
Enter Bellafront.
Mis. F. O sweet madonna, on with your loose gown, your felt[189] and your feather, there’s the sweetest, properest,[190] gallantest gentleman at my house; he smells all of musk and ambergris his pocket full of crowns, flame-coloured doublet, red satin hose, carnation silk stockings, and a leg, and a body,— oh!
Bell. Hence thou, our sex’s monster, poisonous bawd,
Lust’s factor, and damnation’s orator.
Gossip of hell! were all the harlots’ sins
Which the whole world contains, numbered together,
Thine far exceeds them all: of all the creatures
That ever were created, thou art basest.
What serpent would beguile thee of thy office?
It is detestable: for thou livest
Upon the dregs of harlots, guard’st the door,
Whilst couples go to dancing: O coarse devil!
Thou art the bastard’s curse, thou brand’st his birth;
The lecher’s French disease: for thou dry-suck’st him;
The harlot’s poison, and thine own confusion.
Mis. F. Marry come up, with a pox, have you nobody to rail against, but your bawd now?
Bell. And you, knave pander, kinsman to a bawd.
Rog. You and I, madonna, are cousins.
Bell. Of the same blood and making, near allied;
Thou, that art slave to sixpence, base metalled villain!
Rog. Sixpence? nay, that’s not so: I never took under two shillings four-pence; I hope I know my fee.