Tho. Peace, Grimes.
Lov. Imprimis, her faire haire; no silken sleave
Can be so soft the gentle worm does weave.
It[em], noe Plush or satten sleeke, I vow,
May be compard unto her velvet brow.
It[em], her eyes—two buttons made of iett;
Her lipps gumd taffety that will not frett;
Her cheeks are changeable, as I suppose,—
Carnation and white, lyllie and rose.
Grimes. I, there it goes.
Bon. I protest I comend him; he goes through stitch with her like the Master of his trade.
Lov. It[em] her brests two bottomes[59] be of thred, By which love to his laborinth is led. Her belly—
Grimes. I, marry, sir, now he comes to the purpose.
Lov. Her Belly a soft Cushion where no sinner But her true love must dare stick a pin in her.
Grimes. That line has got the prick and prayse from all the rest.
Lov. Butt to that stuff of stuffs, that without scoff Is Camills haire or else stand further off.
Grimes. How many shreads has he stoale here to patch up this lady?