WID. Out upon thee, Princox! No. Methinks Welltried's a handsome fellow. I like not these starched gallants: masculine faces and masculine gestures please me best. BOLD. How like you Master Pert? WID. Fie upon him! when he is in his scarlet clothes, he looks like a man of wax, and I had as lief have a dog o' wax: I do not think but he lies in a case o' nights. He walks as if he were made of gins[100]--as if Nature had wrought him in a frame: I have seen him sit discontented a whole play, because one of the purls of his band was fallen out of his reach to order again.[101] BOLD. Why, Bold, madam, is clean contrary. WID. Ay, but that's as ill: each extreme is alike vicious; his careful carelessness is his study. He spends as much time to make himself slovenly, as the other to be spruce. His garters hang over upon the calves of his legs, his doublet unbuttoned, and his points untrussed; his hair in's eyes like a drunkard, and his hat, worn on the[102] hinder-part of his head, as if he cared more for his memory than his wit, makes him look as if he were distracted. Princox, I would have you lie with me: I do not love to lie alone. BOLD. With all my heart, madam. WID. Are you clean-skinned? BOLD. Clean-skinned, madam? there's a question! do you think I have the itch? I am an Englishwoman: I protest, I scorn the motion. WID. Nay, prythee, Princox, be not angry: it's a sign of honesty, I can tell you. BOLD. Faith, madam, I think 'tis but simple honesty that dwells at the sign of the scab. WID. Well, well, come to bed, and we'll talk further of all these matters. [_Exit._ BOLD. Fortune, I thank thee; I will owe thee eyes For this good turn! now is she mine indeed. Thou hast given me that success my project hop'd. Off, false disguise, that hast been true to me, And now be Bold, that thou may'st welcome be. [_Exit._ SCENE IV. _Enter_ WHOREBANG, BOTS,[103] TEARCHAPS, SPILLBLOOD, _and_ DRAWER: _several patches on their faces_. TEAR. Damn me, we will have more wine, sirrah, or we'll down into the cellar, and drown thee in a butt of Malmsey, and hew all the hogsheads in pieces. WHORE. Hang him, rogue! shall he die as honourable as the Duke of Clarence? by this flesh, let's have wine, or I will cut thy head off, and have it roasted and eaten in Pie Corner next Bartholomew-tide. DRAWER. Gentlemen, I beseech you consider where you are--Turnbull Street--a civil place: do not disturb a number of poor gentlewomen. Master Whorebang, Master Bots, Master Tearchaps, and Master Spillblood, the watch are abroad. SPILL. The watch! why, you rogue, are not we kings of Turnbull? DRAWER. Yes, marry are ye, sir: for my part, if you'll be quiet, I'll have a sign made of ye, and it shall be called the four kings of Turnbull. BOTS. Will you fetch us wine? WHORE. And a whore, sirrah?