W. Small. How? marry him! foot, art mad, widow?
Woo't marry an old crazed man
With meagre looks, with visage wan,
With little legs and crinkled thighs,
With chap-fall'n gums and deep-sunk eyes?
Why, a dog, seiz'd on ten days by death,
Stinks not so loathsome as his breath;
Nor can a city common jakes,
Which all mens' breeches undertakes,
Yield fasting stomachs such a savour,
As doth his breath and ugly favour.
Oliver. Rogue! [Aside.
Adri. That's all one, sir; she means to be a lady.
W. Small. Does she so? and thou must be her waiting-woman?
Faith, thou wilt make a fine dainty creature,
To sit at a chamber-door, and look fleas
In my lady's dog, while she is shewing
Some slippery-breech'd courtier rare faces
In a bay[403]-window. Foot, widow,
Marry me—a young and complete gallant.
Taf. How a complete gallant? what? a fellow
With a hat tuck'd up behind, and, what we use
About our hips to keep our coats from dabbling,
He wears about his neck—a farthingale!
A standing collar to keep his neat band clean,
The whilst his shirt doth stink, and is more foul
Than an inn-of-chancery table-cloth:
His breeches must be plaited, as if he had
Some thirty pockets, when one poor half-penny purse
Will carry all his treasure; his knees all points,
As if his legs and hams were tied together;
A fellow that has no inside, but prates
By rote, as players and parrots use to do,
And, to define a complete gallant right,
A mercer form'd him, a tailor makes him,
A player gives him spirit.
W. Small. Why, so in my conscience to be a countess
Thou wouldst marry a hedge-hog: I must confess,
'Tis state to have a coxcomb kiss your hands,
While yet the chamber-lie[404] is scarce wip'd off;
To have an upright usher march before you
Bare-headed in a tuftafata jerkin,
Made of your old cast gown, shows passing well,
But when you feel your husband's pulse, that's hell;
Then you fly out, and bid strait smocks farewell.
Taf. I hope, sir, whate'er our husbands be,
We may be honest.
W. Small. May be! may, y' are:
Women and honesty are so near allied,
As parsons' lives are to their doctrines—
One and the same. But, widow, now be rul'd;
I hope the heavens will give thee better grace
Than to accept the father, and I yet live
To be bestowed: if you wed the stinkard,
You shall find the tale of Tantalus
To be no fable, widow.
Oliver. How I sweat! [Aside.
I can hold no longer. [Comes out.] Degenerate bastard!
I here disclaim thee, cashier thee; nay, more,
I disinherit thee both of my love
And living: get thee a grey cloak and hat,
And walk in Paul's[405] among thy cashier'd mates
As melancholy as the best.
Taf. Come not near me,
I forbid thee my house, my out-houses,
My garden, orchard, and my back-side[406];
Thou shalt not harbour near me.