Drawer. Yes, sir.
Capt. Face. And, good-man rogue,
See what good thing your kitchen-maid has left
For me to work upon; my barrow-guttlings grumble
And would have food: [Exit Drawer.] Say now, the vintner's wife
Should bring me up a pheasant, partridge, quail;
A pleasant banquet, and extremely love me,
Desire me to eat, kiss, and protest,
I should pay nothing for it; say she should drink
Herself three-quarters drunk to win my love,
Then give me a chain worth some three score pounds;
Say 'twere worth but forty—say, but twenty,
For citizens do seldom in their wooing
Give above twenty pounds—say then, 'tis twenty,
I'll go sell some fifteen pounds' worth of the chain
To buy some clothes, and shift my lousy linen.
And wear the rest as a perpetual favour
About my arm in fashion of a bracelet.
Say then her husband should grow jealous,
I'd make him drunk, and then I'll cuckold him.
But then a vintner's wife, some rogue will say,
Which sits at bar for the receipt of custom,
That smells of chippings and of broken fish,
Is love to Captain Face; which to prevent,
I'll never come but when her best-stitch'd hat,
Her bugle-gown, and best-wrought smock is on;
Then does she neither smell of bread, of meat,
Or droppings of the tap; it shall be so.
Enter Boutcher, William Small-Shanks, and Constantia.
Bout. Now leave us, boy; bless you, Captain Face.
Capt. Face. I'll have no music[416].
W. Small. Foot, dost take us for fiddlers?
Capt. Face. Then turn straight. Drawer, run down the stairs,
And thank the gods a gave me that great patience
Not to strike you.
Bout. Your patience, sir, is great:
For you dare seldom strike. Sirrah, they say,
You needs will wed the widow Taffata,
Nolens volens?
Capt. Face. Do not urge my patience,
Awake not fury new-rak'd up in embers!
I give you leave to live.
W. Small. Men say y'have tricks,
Y'are an admirable ape, and you can do
More feats than three baboons: we must have some.