_Sce._ And learns to fiddle most melodiously,
And sings, 'twould make your ears prick up, to hear him Gent.
Shortly she'l make him spin: and 'tis thought
He will prove an admirable maker of Bonelace,
And what a rare gift will that be in a General!
_Ant._ I would he could abstain.
_Sce._ She is a witch sure,
And works upon him with some damn'd inchantment.
_Dol._ How cunning she will carry her behaviours,
And set her countenance in a thousand postures,
To catch her ends!
_Sce._ She will be sick, well, sullen,
Merry, coy, over-joy'd, and seem to dye
All in one half hour, to make an asse of him:
I make no doubt she will be drunk too damnably,
And in her drink will fight, then she fits him.
_Ant._ That thou shouldst bring her in!
_Sce._ 'Twas my blind fortune,
My Souldiers told me, by the weight 'twas wicked:
Would I had carried _Milo's_ Bull a furlong,
When I brought in this Cow-Calf: he has advanced me
From an old Souldier, to a bawd of memory:
O, that the Sons of _Pompey_ were behind him,
The honour'd _Cato_, and fierce _Juba_ with 'em,
That they might whip him from his whore, and rowze him:
That their fierce Trumpets, from his wanton trances,
Might shake him like an Earth-quake.
_Enter_ Septimius.
_Ant._ What's this fellow?
_Dol._ Why, a brave fellow, if we judge men by their clothes.
Pages:
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50