Sir Geff. Combe with more circumspection, knave; these perfumes Have a dull odor; there is meale among them, My Mrs. will not scent them.
Crac. Uncle, my friend,
My martiall fellow is deficient
In this ubiquitarie mettall, silver:
You must impart.
Sir Geff. This garter is not well tide, fellow: where
Wert thou brought up? thou knowest not to tie
A rose yet, knave: a little straiter: so,
Now, tis indifferent. Who can say that I
Am old now?
Bun. Marry, that can I or any one which sees you.
Suc. Death to my reputation! Sir, we are gent[lemen] and deserve regard: Will you not be responsible?
Sir Geff. Alas, good Captaine, I was meditating how to salute my lady this morning. You have bin a traviler: had I best do it in the Italian garbe or with a Spanish gravity? your French mode is grown so common every vintners boy has it as perfect as his anon, anon, sir. Hum, I must consider on it.
Crac. Nay, but uncle, uncle, shall we have answeare concerning this mony, uncle? You must disburse; that is the souldiers phrase. You see this man; regard him.
Suc. Death of vallor! I can hold no longer; I shall rise in wroth against him.
Crac. Dee heare, Uncle? you must furnish him; he wilbe irefull presently, and then a whole bagg will not satisfie him; heele eate your gold in anger and drinke silver in great sack glasses.
Sir Geff. Pox o'this Congee; 't shalbe thus, no thus;
That writhing of my body does become me
Infinitly. Now to begett an active
Complement that, like a matins sung
By virgins, may enchant her amorous ear.
The Spanish Basolas[63] manos sounds, methinks,
As harsh as a Morisco kettledrum;
The French boniour is ordinary as their
Disease: hees not a gent that cannot parlee.
I must invent some new and polite phrases.