boy.

Cris. She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress.

Alb. For fault of a better, sir.

Tuc. A better! profane rascal: I cry thee mercy, my good scroyle,
was't thou?

Alb. No harm, captain.

Tuc. She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene: come hither, Penelope;
what's thy name, Iris?

Chloe. My name is Chloe, sir; I am a gentlewoman.

Tuc. Thou art in merit to be an empress, Chloe, for an eye and a
lip; thou hast an emperor's nose: kiss me again: 'tis a virtuous
punk; so! Before Jove, the gods were a sort of goslings, when they
suffered so sweet a breath to perfume the bed of a stinkard: thou
hadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate, they were,
punk, they were.

Chloe. That's sure, sir: let me crave your name, I pray you, sir.

Tuc. I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, punk; the noble
Roman, punk: a gentleman, and a commander, punk.
[Walks aside.
Chloe. In good time: a gentleman, and a commander! that's as good
as a poet, methinks.