SCENE III.—Enter PHILEMATIUM and SCAPHA, with all the requisites
for a toilet.
PHILE. On my word, for this long time I've not bathed in cold water with more delight than just now; nor do I think that I ever was, my dear Scapha, more thoroughly cleansed than now.
SCA. May the upshot of everything be unto you like a plenteous year's harvest.
PHILE. What has this harvest got to do with my bathing?
SCA. Not a bit more than your bathing has to do with the harvest.
PHILO. (apart). O beauteous Venus, this is that storm of mine which stripped off all the modesty with which I was roofed; through which Desire and Cupid poured their shower into my breast; and never since have I been able to roof it in. Now are my walls soaking in my heart; this building is utterly undone.
PHILE. Do look, my Scapha, there's a dear, whether this dress quite becomes me. I wish to please Philolaches my protector, the apple of my eye.