_Mild_. Oh my _Palestra_
And fayre _Scribonia_, weare but you too safe,
Yet som hope weare reserved me.
_Sarl_. I praye, _Mildewe_,
When you so early to the bottom dyv'd,
For whom weare you a fishinge?
_Mild_. Marry, for maydens;
Woold I knewe howe to catch them. But my gutts,
Howe they are sweld with sea brine!
_Sarl_. Tis good phisick
To cure thee of the mangy.
_Mild_. Wretched man!
That have no more left of a magazine
Then these wett cloathes upon mee, nay the woorst
Of all I had and purposely put on
Only to lyv a shipp-board.
_Sarl_. Once to-day
Thou wert in wealthe above mee, nowe the seas have
Left us an equall portion.
_Mild_. In all the wourld
I vowe I am not woorthe a lighted faggott
Or a poore pan of charcoale.
_Sarl_. Justly punisht
Thou that hast all thy lyfe tyme dealt in fyre-woorks,
Stoves and hott bathes to sweet in, nowe to have
Thy teethe to falter in thy head for could
Nimbler then virginall Jacks.[98]
_Mild_. Th'art a sweete guest.
_Sarl_. Too good for such an host, better to have bin
Lodgd in som spittle; or, if possible,
To bee imprisoned in som surgeon's box
That smells of salves and plasters.
Pages:
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179