Her necke in chaines, all naked lyes her brest,
Her body lighter than the feathered Crest. 
Another powtes, and scoules, and hangs the lip,
Even as the banckrout[224] credit of her husband
Cannot equal her with honors liverie. 
What does she care if, for to deck her brave,
Hee’s carryed from the Gate-house to his grave! 
Another in a rayling pulppet key,
Drawes through her nose the accent of her voice,
And in the presence of her good-man Goate
Cries ’fye, now fye, uppon these wicked men
That use such beastly and inhumane talke,’
When being in private all her studies warne
To make him enter into Capricorn. 
Another as she goes treads a Canarie[225] pace,
Jets it so fine and minces so demure
As mistris Bride upon her marriage day;
Her heels are Corke, her body Atlas,
Her Beautie bought, her soule an Atomus. 
Another, with a spleene-devoured face,
Her eies as hollow as Anatomy,[226]
Her tung more venome then a Serpents sting,
Which when it wagges within her chap-faln jawes
Is noise more horrid then a cry of hounds
With open mouths pursuing of their game. 
Wants she but ritch attire or costly dyet,
With her the Devill can nere live in quiet. 
Yet these are weaker vessels, heaven doth knowe;
Lay on them ought but ease, you doe them wrong;
They are as weake as water and indeede as strong,
And then, like mightie ships when pellets sincke,
To them lay more men, sheele never shrinke.

    [Enter[227] Getica and Boss, with a dog.]

Boss.  Mistris, that face wants a fresh Glosse.

Gent.  Prethee, dib it in well, Bos.

Acut. Pigmaleon, Pigmaleon, I coniure thee appeare; to worke, to worke, make more Marble Ingles.  Nature thou art a foole, Art is above thee; Belzebub, paint thy face there’s some will love thee.

Boss.  Rare, Mistris, heeres a cheeke like a Camelion or a blasing Star, you shall heere me blaze it; heere’s two saucers sanguine in a sable field pomegranet, a pure pendat ready to drop out of the stable, a pin and web argent in hayre de Roy.

Grac.  And a fooles head in the Crest.

Bos.  In the Crest? oh sweete Vermilion mistris, tis pittie the Vermilion Wormes shoulde eate thee, ile set it with pretious stones and ye will.

Gent.  Enough, sweete Bosse, throwe a little water to spurt’s face and lets away.

Bo.  Hold up; so, sir, now away.  Oh Mistris, your scantling, most sweete mistriss, most derydent starre.

Acut.  Then most rydent starre, faire fall ye.

Grac.  Nay tis the Moone her self, for there’s her man and her Dogge before.

Bosse.  I, sir, but the man is not in the moone, and my bush is before me, ergo, not at my backe, et ergo, not moone sir.