PHILE. Hand me the ceruse {5}.
SCA. Why, what need of ceruse have you?
PHILE. To paint my cheeks with it.
SCA. On the same principle, you would want to be making ivory white with ink.
PHILO. (apart). Cleverly said that, about the ink and the ivory! Bravo! I applaud you, Scapha.
PHILE. Well then, do you give me the rouge.
SCA. I shan't give it. You really are a clever one. Do you wish to patch up a most clever piece with new daubing? It's not right that any paint should touch that person, neither ceruse, nor quince-ointment, nor any other wash. Take the mirror, then. (Hands her the glass.)
PHILO. (apart.) Ah wretched me!—she gave the glass a kiss. I could much wish for a stone, with which to break the head of that glass.
SCA. Take the towel and wipe your hands.
PHILE. Why so, prithee?