Michael. Of a great fever.
Clarke. A fear of what?
Michael. A great fever.
Clarke. A fever? God forbid!
Michael. Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself.
Clarke. O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to,
you carry an eye over Mistress Susan. 60
Michael. I’ faith, to keep her from the painter.
Clarke. Why more from a painter than from a serving
creature like yourself?
Michael. Because you painters make but a painting
table of a pretty wench, and spoil her beauty with
blotting.
Clarke. What mean you by that?