Sir Geff. Retort not so abstrusly.—Will you disdain
The good of honour, condiscend to me
And youthfull write me, lady, in your stile,
And to each thread of thy sun-daseling h[air]
Ile hang a pearle as orient as the gemmes
The eastern Queenes doe boast of. When thou walk[st],
The country lasses, crownd with gorgeous flo[w]res,
Shall fill each path and dance their rural jigs
In honour of this bewty.
Cla. Hey day, where did you borrow this? Sir, youle beg[one]: I feele the fitt a coming; I shall rayle instantly.
Crac. Baffeld before my Mrs? Death to fame! Captaine, good Captaine.
Suc. Pish, I doe but drill her
For you, friend; you shall have her, say your Captaine
Sayes it, whose words doe ventilate destruction
To all who do oppugn what they designe.
Sir Gef. Come, you shall love me.
Cla. I cannot choose: goe, get you home, antiquity; thinke [of] heaven, say thy prayers often for thy old sinns and let [thy] maid diett thee with warme broathes least some cold appoplexis sease thee before thou art prepard.
Sir Gef. Madam! madam! shees in her old fitt!
Cla. Call her, I care not if she heare me, I councell better than your physician: every night drinke a good cup of muscadine,[113]—you will not have moysture left to ingender spitle to cleanse thy mouth ith morning. Goe, set thy feath[er] right, good mooncalfe[114]: you have your answeare.
Sir Gef, Contemne an old man and his feather, Bunch, Ile begon, B[unch].
[Exeunt Sir Gef. and Bunch.