_Cou_. A little sack had power to cure this madnes.
_Sis_. I hope you are not sober yet, the humour May change when you ha slept.
_Cou_. Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.
_Cou_. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder, When you are in the Ivie bush, that face Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes, So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't, With those black patches it does put me in mind Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me. How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches; You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.
_Sis_. This rudenes Is beyond the manners of a gentleman.
_Cou_. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so.
_Sis_. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly.
_Cou_. With all my heart; I dare then take my leave, to[o].
_Cou_. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape? Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.
_Sis_. I know youle bring me home in Curtesie.
_Cou_. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you. Fare you well, Ladie.--Do you see that Bull?
_Cou_. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour, Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer To appear still in new rich suites, but lives Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none. Like the great _Turke_ he walkes in his Seraglio, And doth command which concubine best pleases; When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe, And makes as he had never knowne the Dun, White, Red or Brindled Cowe.
_Cou_. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it. Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie, An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not; For, if you raile, too, men that know you can Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and Tis not my ayme.
_Sis_. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.
_Cou_. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.