Enter Pandar, Bawd and Boult.
PANDAR.
Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne’er come here.
BAWD.
Fie, fie upon her! She’s able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her.
BOULT.
Faith, I must ravish her, or she’ll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests.
PANDAR.
Now, the pox upon her green sickness for me!
BAWD.
Faith, there’s no way to be rid on’t but by the way to the pox.
Here comes the Lord Lysimachus disguised.
BOULT.
We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers.
Enter Lysimachus.
LYSIMACHUS.
How now! How a dozen of virginities?
BAWD.
Now, the gods to bless your honour!