Wan. Yes, yes, you are fine things: I wonder women can endure you; for me, I expect you worse, and am armed for't.
Wild. Faith, let's send and release her; the jest is gone far enough; as I live, I pity her.
Wan. Pity her! hang her, and rid the country of her. She is a thing wears out her limbs as fast as her clothes; one that never goes to bed at all, nor sleeps in a whole skin, but is taken to pieces like a motion, as if she were too long; she should be hanged for offering to be a whore.
Capt. As I live, she's in the right. I peeped once to see what she did before she went to bed; by this light, her maids were dissecting her; and when they had done, they brought some of her to bed, and the rest they either pinned or hung up, and so she lay dismembered till morning; in which time her chamber was strewed all over, like an anatomy-school.
Wan. And when she travels anywhere, she is transported with as great a care and fear of spoiling, as a juggler's motion, when he removes from fair to fair.
Care. She is a right broken gamester who, though she lacks wherewithal to play, yet loves to be looking on.
Enter Wanton's Maid.
Bawd. He is awake, and calls for you impatiently: he would fain be in bed; the company is all gone.
Wan. Are you instructed?