Med. Surely, Lady Joculette, you set him at a rate far above th' market? you value him not as if you meant to sell.
Joc. No, nor buy neither. I have no property in such a rich pennyworth; for, if I had, I should wish——
Med. I know what, madam.
Joc. Good now! thy conceit?
Med. Shall I freely unbosom me?
All. Pray thee, madam; do, madam!
Med. You would wish that, his puny baker-legs had more Essex[178] growth in them, for else they would make ill butcher's ware!
Joc. Thou art a shrewd wench, trust me.
Tin. Well, ladies, I know a new-minted lord, that can act the Spanish Don, with a peaked beard and a starched look, to an hair.
Fri. O Madam Tinder, I guess where you are; but he wants a little of your spirit. He can cringe and caress better than he dare fight. A lady's honour might perish under such a feverish champion.