Acut. Pigmaleon, Pigmaleon, I coniure thee appeare; to worke, to worke, make more Marble Ingles. Nature thou art a foole, Art is above thee; Belzebub, paint thy face there's some will love thee.
Boss. Rare, Mistris, heeres a cheeke like a Camelion or a blasing Star, you shall heere me blaze it; heere's two saucers sanguine in a sable field pomegranet, a pure pendat ready to drop out of the stable, a pin and web argent in hayre de Roy.
Grac. And a fooles head in the Crest.
Bos. In the Crest? oh sweete Vermilion mistris, tis pittie the Vermilion Wormes shoulde eate thee, ile set it with pretious stones and ye will.
Gent. Enough, sweete Bosse, throwe a little water to spurt's face and lets away.
Bo. Hold up; so, sir, now away. Oh Mistris, your scantling, most sweete mistriss, most derydent starre.
Acut. Then most rydent starre, faire fall ye.
Grac. Nay tis the Moone her self, for there's her man and her Dogge before.
Bosse. I, sir, but the man is not in the moone, and my bush is before me, ergo, not at my backe, et ergo, not moone sir.
Gent. What's your will sir?