The Poetaster by Ben Jonson
page 55 of 324 (16%)
page 55 of 324 (16%)
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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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