Joc. That poet surely was neither Mantuan, Lucian, nor Claudian.
Med. No, sister; nor Alcæus, Eubæus, nor Apuleius; but some cold cucumber-spirit—Xenocrates, who never actually knew how to hug his mistress.
Tin. This is the hour and place.
Fri. It is so; and no doubt but our feathered favourites have overflown us.
SCENE II.
Enter Vintress and Drawers.
Vin. What do you lack, my princely beauties?
Cav. What your sex cannot furnish us with, my dainty Dabrides.
Did you entertain no gallants lately?
Vin. Not any, madam; but gallants are men of their words; they will stand to their tacking upon occasion: will you be pleased, noble ladies, in their absence to bestow yourselves in a room; or, to procreate yourselves, take a turn in the garden?