OLIVER. Nay, even to-night, So you be pleas'd. With little warning, widow, We old men can be ready, and thou shalt see, Before the time that chanticleer Shall call, and tell the day is near: When wenches, lying on their backs, Receive with joy their love-stol'n smacks; When maids, awak'd from their first sleep, Deceiv'd with dreams, begin to weep, And think, if dreams such pleasure know, What sport the substance them would show; When a lady 'gins[400] white limbs to spread, Her love but new-stol'n to her bed, His cotton shoes yet scarce put off, And dares not laugh, speak, sneeze, or cough; When precise dames begin to think, Why their gross louring[401] husbands stink; What pleasure 'twere then to enjoy, A nimble vicar or a boy; Before this time thou shalt behold Me quaffing out our bridal bowl[402]. ADRI. Then, belike, before the morning sun You will be coupled? TAF. Yes, faith, Adriana. ADRI. Well, I will look you shall have a clean smock, Provided that you pay the fee, Sir Oliver. Since my mistress, sir, will be a lady, I'll lose no fees due to the waiting-maid. OLIVER. Why, is there a fee belonging to it? ADRI. A knight, and never heard of smock-fees? I would I had the monopoly of them, So there were no impost set upon them. _Enter_ WILLIAM SMALL-SHANKS. OLIVER. Whom have we here? what, my mad-headed son; What makes he here so late? Say I am gone; And I the whilst will step behind the hangings. W. SMALL. God bless thee, parcel of man's flesh. TAF. How, sir? W. SMALL. Why, parcel of man's flesh! art not a woman? But, widow, where's the old stinkard my father? They say, widow, you dance altogether After his pipe. TAF. What then? W. SMALL. Th' art a fool, I'll assure thee there's no music in it. TAF. Can you play better? W. SMALL. Better, widow? Blood, dost think I have not learnt my prick-song? What, not the court prick-song? One up and another down: Why, I have't to a hair; by this light, I hope thou lovest him not. TAF. I'll marry him, sir. W. SMALL. How? marry him! foot, art mad, widow? Woo't marry an old crazed man With meagre looks, with visage wan, With little legs and crinkled thighs, With chap-fall'n gums and deep-sunk eyes? Why, a dog, seiz'd on ten days by death, Stinks not so loathsome as his breath; Nor can a city common jakes, Which all mens' breeches undertakes, Yield fasting stomachs such a savour, As doth his breath and ugly favour. OLIVER. Rogue! [_Aside._ ADRI. That's all one, sir; she means to be a lady.