Wid. Fie upon him! when he is in his scarlet clothes, he looks like a man of wax, and I had as lief have a dog o' wax: I do not think but he lies in a case o' nights. He walks as if he were made of gins[100]—as if Nature had wrought him in a frame: I have seen him sit discontented a whole play, because one of the purls of his band was fallen out of his reach to order again.[101]
Bold. Why, Bold, madam, is clean contrary.
Wid. Ay, but that's as ill: each extreme is alike vicious; his careful carelessness is his study. He spends as much time to make himself slovenly, as the other to be spruce. His garters hang over upon the calves of his legs, his doublet unbuttoned, and his points untrussed; his hair in's eyes like a drunkard, and his hat, worn on the[102] hinder-part of his head, as if he cared more for his memory than his wit, makes him look as if he were distracted. Princox, I would have you lie with me: I do not love to lie alone.
Bold. With all my heart, madam.
Wid. Are you clean-skinned?
Bold. Clean-skinned, madam? there's a question! do you think I have the itch? I am an Englishwoman: I protest, I scorn the motion.
Wid. Nay, prythee, Princox, be not angry: it's a sign of honesty, I can tell you.
Bold. Faith, madam, I think 'tis but simple honesty that dwells at the sign of the scab.
Wid. Well, well, come to bed, and we'll talk further of all these matters.
[Exit.