The Poetaster by Ben Jonson
page 57 of 324 (17%)
page 57 of 324 (17%)
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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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