_Mel._ O, Mary Ambree,[60] good, thy judgment, wench? Thy bright election's clear:[61] what will he prove?
_Ros._ Hath a short finger and a naked chin, A skipping eye; dare lay my judgment (faith) His love is glibbery;[62] there's no hold on't, wench. Give me a husband whose aspect is firm; 110 A full-cheek'd gallant with a bouncing thigh: O, he is the _Paradizo dell madonne contento_.
_Ros._ By my nine and thirtieth servant, sweet, Thou art in love; but stand on tiptoe,[63] fair; Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, i'faith.
_Enter_ MATZAGENTE; PIERO _meets him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound a flourish: they two stand, using seeming compliments, whilst the scene passeth above_.
_Mel._ St. Mark, St. Mark! what kind of thing appears?
_Ros._ For fancy's passion, spit upon him! Fie, His face is varnish'd. In the name of love, What country bred that creature?
_Fla._ The heir of Milan, Signior Matzagente.
_Ros._ Matzagente! now, by my pleasure's hope, He is made like a tilting-staff; and looks For all the world like an o'er-roasted pig: A great tobacco-taker too, that's flat; For his eyes look as if they had been hung In the smoke of his nose.
_Mel._ What husband will he prove, sweet Rossaline?
_Ros._ Avoid him; for he hath a dwindled leg, A low forehead, and a thin coal-black beard; 130 And will be jealous too, believe it, sweet; For his chin sweats, and hath a gander neck, A thin lip, and a little monkish eye. 'Precious! what a slender waist he hath! He looks like a may-pole,[64] or a notched stick; He'll snap in two at every little strain. Give me a husband that will fill mine arms, Of steady judgment, quick and nimble sense; Fools relish not a lady's excellence.
[_Exeunt all on the lower stage; at which the cornets sound a flourish, and a peal of shot is given._
_Mel._ The triumph's ended; but look, Rossaline! 140 What gloomy soul in strange accustrements[65] Walks on the pavement?
_Ros._ Good sweet, let's to her; prithee, Mellida.
_Mel._ How covetous thou art of novelties!
_Ros._ Pish! 'tis our nature to desire things That are thought strangers to the common cut.
_Ros._ But what? prithee, go down; let's see her face: God send that neither wit nor beauty wants, Those tempting sweets, affection's adamants. 150