Orl. Indeed, if you be right Dutchmen, if you fall to drinking, you must be gone.
Mat. The worst is, my wife is not at home; but we’ll fly high, my generous knight, for all that: there’s no music when a woman is in the concert.
Orl. No; for she’s like a pair of virginals,
Always with jacks at her tail.
Enter Astolfo, Carolo, Beraldo and Fontinell.
Lod. See, the covey is sprung.
Ast., Car., &c. Save you, gallants.
Mat. Happily encountered, sweet bloods.
Lod. Gentlemen, you all know Signor Candido, the linen-draper, he that’s more patient than a brown baker, upon the day when he heats his oven, and has forty scolds about him.
Ast., Car., &c. Yes, we know him all, what of him?
Lod. Would it not be a good fit of mirth, to make a piece of English cloth of him, and to stretch him on the tenters, till the threads of his own natural humour crack, by making him drink healths, tobacco,[293] dance, sing bawdy songs, or to run any bias according as we think good to cast him?