Pen. Heart! I should follow you like a young rank whore,
That runs proud of her love; pluck you by the sleeve,
Whoe'er were with you, in the open street,
With the impudency of a drunken oyster-wife;
Put on my fighting waistcoat and the ruff,
That fears no tearing; batter down the windows,
Where I suspected you might lie all night;
Scratch faces, like a wild-cat of Pick'd-hatch.[16]
C. Fred. Pendant, thou'lt make me doat upon myself.
Pen. Narcissus, by this hand, had far less cause.
C. Fred. How know'st thou that?
Boy. They were all one, my lord.
Pen. How do I know? I speak my conscience:
His beauties were but shadows to my lord.
Why, boy, his presence would enkindle sin
And longing thoughts in a devoted nun.
O foot! O leg! O hand! O body! face!
By Jove, it is a little man of wax.
C. Fred. Thou'rt a rare rascal: 'tis not for nothing
That men call thee my Commendations.
Boy. For nothing? no; he would be loth it should.
Enter Captain Pouts.