Marg. Art thou acquainted with never a farthingale-maker, nor a French hood-maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! How shall I look in a hood, I wonder! Perdy,[66] oddly, I think.
Hodge. As a cat out of a pillory:[67] very well, I warrant you, mistress.
Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and, Roger, canst thou tell where I may buy a good hair?
Hodge. Yes, forsooth, at the poulterer’s in Gracious Street.[68]
Marg. Thou art an ungracious wag; perdy, I mean a false hair for my periwig.
Hodge. Why, mistress, the next time I cut my beard, you shall have the shavings of it; but they are all true hairs.
Marg. It is very hot, I must get me a fan or else a mask.
Hodge. So you had need to hide your wicked face.
Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this world’s calling is; perdy, but that it is one of the wonderful works of God, I would not deal with it. Is not Firk come yet? Hans, be not so sad, let it pass and vanish, as my husband’s worship says.
Hans. Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo.[69]