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The Poetaster by Ben Jonson
page 57 of 324 (17%)
I pray you let me buy them out of your hand; for, I tell you true,
I take it highly in snuff, to learn how to entertain gentlefolks of
you, at these years, i'faith. Alas, man, there was not a gentleman
came to your house in your t'other wife's time, I hope! nor a lady,
nor music, nor masques! Nor you nor your house were so much as
spoken of, before I disbased myself, from my hood and my
farthingal, to these bum-rowls and your whale-bone bodice.

Alb. Look here, my sweet wife; I am mum, my dear mummia, my
balsamum, my spermaceti, and my very city of---She has the most
best, true, feminine wit in Rome!

Cris. I have heard so, sir; and do most vehemently desire to
participate the knowledge of her fair features.

Alb. Ah, peace; you shall hear more anon: be not seen yet, I pray
you; not yet: observe.
[Exit.
Chloe. 'Sbody! give husbands the head a little more, and they'll be
nothing but head shortly: What's he there?

1 Maid. I know not, forsooth.

2 Maid. Who would you speak with, sir?

Cris. I would speak with my cousin Cytheris.

2 Maid. He is one, forsooth, would speak with his cousin Cytheris.

Chloe. Is she your cousin, sir?
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