Out on him, beast; he's always talking filthy to a body. If he sits but at the table with one, he'll be making nasty figures in the napkins.
He has such a breath, one kiss of him were enough to cure the fits of the mother; 'tis worse than assa fœtida.—Clean linen, he says, is unwholesome; he is continually eating of garlic and chewing tobacco.
Who'd be that sordid foolish thing call'd man,
To cringe thus, fawn, and flatter for a pleasure
Which beasts enjoy so very much above him?
The lusty bull ranges through all the field,
And from the herd singling his female out,
Enjoys her, and abandons her at will.
It shall be so, I'll yet possess my love,
Wait on, and watch her loose unguarded hours.
Then, when her roving thoughts have been abroad,
And brought in wanton wishes to her heart
I' th' very minute when her virtue nods,
I'll rush upon her in a storm of love,
Beat down her guard of honour all before me,
Surfeit on joys, till even desire grow sick;
Then by long absence liberty regain,
And quite forget the pleasure and the pain.
(Orphan, fin du Ier acte.)
Impossible de voir ensemble plus de coquinerie morale et de correction littéraire.
PAGE (à Monimia).
.... In the morning when you call me to you,
And by your bed I stand tell you stories,
I am asham'd to see your swelling breasts;
It makes me blush, they are so very white.