University of Virginia Library

Scene. II.

Pvg. Ambler.
[Pvg.]
O, call me home againe, deare Chiefe, and put me
To yoaking foxes, milking of Hee-goates,
Pounding of water in a morter, lauing
The sea dry with a nut-shell, gathering all
The leaues are falne this Autumne, drawing farts
Out of dead bodies, making ropes of sand,
Catching the windes together in a net,
Mustring of ants, and numbring atomes; all
That hell, and you thought exquisite torments, rather
Then stay me here, a thought more: I would sooner
Keepe fleas within a circle, and be accomptant
A thousand yeere, which of 'hem and how far
Out leap'd the other, then endure a minute
Such as I haue within. There is no hell
To a Lady of fashion. All your tortures there
Ambler comes in, & suruayes him
Are pastimes to it. 'Twould be a refreshing
For me, to be i'the fire againe, from hence.

Amb.
This is my suite, and those the shoes and roses!

Pvg.
Th'haue such impertinent vexations,
Pug perceiues it, and starts.
A generall Councell o' diuels could not hit—
Ha! This is hee, I tooke a sleepe with his Wench,
And borrow'd his cloathes. What might I doe to balke him?

Amb.
Do you heare, Sr?

Pvg.
Answ. him but not to th'purpose

He answers quite from the purpose.
Amb.
What is your name, I pray you Sir.

Pvg.
Is't so late Sir?

Amb.
I aske not o' the time, but of your name, Sir,

Pvg.
I thanke you, Sir. Yes it dos hold Sir, certaine.

Amb.
Hold, Sir? What holds? I must both hold, and talke to you
About these clothes.

Pvg.
A very pretty lace!
But the Taylor cossend me.

Amb.
No, I am cossend
By you! robb'd.

Pvg.
Why, when you please Sir, I am
For three peny Gleeke, your man

Amb.
Pox o'your gleeke,
And three pence. Giue me an answere.

Pvg.
Sir,
My master is the best at it.

Amb.
Your master!
Who is your Master.

Pvg.
Let it be friday night.

Amb.
What should be then?

Pvg.
Your best songs Thom o' Bet'lem

Amb.
I thinke, you are he. Do's he mocke me trow, from purpose?
Or do not I speake to him, what I meane?
Good Sir your name.

Pvg.
Only a couple a' Cocks Sir,
If we can get a Widgin, 'tis in season.

For Scepticks.
Amb.
He hopes to make on o' these Scipticks o' me
(I thinke I name 'hem right) and do's not fly me.
I wonder at that! 'tis a strange confidence!
I'll prooue another way, to draw his answer.