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The Poetaster by Ben Jonson
page 55 of 324 (16%)
Crisp. I am very well, sir. Never trust me, but your are most
delicately seated here, full of sweet delight and blandishment! an
excellent air, an excellent air!

Alb. Ay, sir, 'tis a pretty air. These courtiers run in my mind
still; I must look out. For Jupiter's sake, sit, sir; or please you
walk into the garden? There's a garden on the back-side.

Crisp. I am most strenuously well, I thank you, sir.

Alb. Much good do you, sir.
[Enter CHLOE, with two Maids.
Chloe. Come, bring those perfumes forward a little, and strew some
roses and violets here: Fie! here be rooms savour the most
pitifully rank that ever I felt. I cry the gods mercy, [sees
Albius] my husband's in the wind of us!

Alb. Why, this is good, excellent, excellent! well said, my sweet
Chloe; trim up your house most obsequiously.

Chloe. For Vulcan's sake, breathe somewhere else; in troth you
overcome our perfumes exceedingly; you are too predominant.

Alb. Hear but my opinion, sweet wife.

Chloe. A pin for your pinion! In sincerity, if you be thus fulsome
to me in every thing, I'll be divorced. Gods my body! you know what
you were before I married you; I was a gentlewoman born, I; I lost
all my friends to be a citizen's wife, because I heard, indeed,
they kept their wives as fine as ladies; and that we might rule our
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