LYSIMACHUS.
You may so; ’tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now? Wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon?
BAWD.
We have here one, sir, if she would—but there never came her like in Mytilene.
LYSIMACHUS.
If she’d do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say.
BAWD.
Your honour knows what ’tis to say well enough.
LYSIMACHUS.
Well, call forth, call forth.
BOULT.
For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but—
LYSIMACHUS.
What, prithee?
BOULT.
O, sir, I can be modest.
LYSIMACHUS.
That dignifies the renown of a bawd no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste.
[Exit Boult.]