Capt. Yes, a shoeing-horn. Marry, there was garlic in the sauce.
Wild. Is this all you would have?
Capt. This, and a bird of paradise, to entertain the rest of the night, and let me alone to cook her.
Wild. A bird of paradise! What's that?
Capt. A girl of fifteen, smooth as satin, white as her Sunday apron, plump, and of the first down. I'll take her with her guts in her belly, and warm her with a country-dance or two, then pluck her, and lay her dry betwixt a couple of sheets; there pour into her so much oil of wit as will make her turn to a man, and stick into her heart three corns of whole love, to make her taste of what she is doing; then, having strewed a man all over her, shut the door and leave us, we'll work ourselves into such a sauce as you can never surfeit on, so poignant, and yet no haut goût.[238] Take heed of a haut goût:[239] your onion and woman make the worst sauce. This shook together by an English cook (for your French seasoning spoils many a woman), and there's a dish for a king.
Wild. For the first part I'll undertake, Captain.
Capt. But this for supper. No more of this now; this afternoon, as you are true to the petticoat, observe your instructions, and meet at Ned's house in the evening.
Omnes. We will not fail.
Capt. I must write to Wanton, to know how things stand at home, and to acquaint her how we have thrived with the old lady to-day.
Wild. Whither will you go to write?