+Abs.+ His excellent carriage spoke him of noble birth. +Tim.+ And this same duke's son loves you, Millicent. +Abs.+ Now Heaven defend me! +Tim.+ What, from a duke's son? marry, come up with a murrain, from whence came you, trow, ha? +Mor.+ Thus nice Grace was at first, and you remember. +Tim.+ I would have ye know, housewife, I could have taken my coach, and fetched him one of the best pieces in Milan, and her husband should have looked after me, that's neighbours might have noted, and cried, _Farewell, naunt,[151] commend me to mine uncle._ +Mor.+ And yet from these perfumed fortunes Heaven defend you! +Abs.+ Perfumed, indeed. +Mor.+ Perfumed! I am a pander, a rogue, that hangs together like a beggar's rags, by geometry, if there were not three ladies swore yesterday that my mistress perfumed the coach! so they were fain to unbrace all the side-parts, to take in fresh air. +Tim.+ He tells you true; I keep no common company, I warrant ye. We vent no breathed ware here. +Abs.+ But have ye so many several women to answer so many men that come? +Mor.+ I'll answer that by demonstration. Have ye not observed the variation of a cloud? sometimes it will be like a lion, sometimes like a horse, sometimes a castle, and yet still a cloud. +Abs.+ True. +Mor.+ Why, so can we make one wench one day look like a country wench, another day like a citizen's wife, another day like a lady, and yet still be a punk. +Abs.+ What shall become of me? O, the curse Of goodness, to leave one woe for a worse! +Phil.+ Morrow, sweet madam. O, look how, like the sun behind a cloud, The beams do give intelligence it is there! +Tim.+ You're reciprocal welcome, sir. +Phil.+ What, have ye not brought this young wild haggard[152] to the lure yet? +Tim.+ Faith, sir, she's a little irregular yet: but time, that turns citizens' caps into court-periwigs, will bring the wonder about. +Phil.+ Bless you, sweet mistress! _Enter +Antonio+ and +Slave+._ +Mor.+ 'Sfoot! here's the prince: I smell thunder. +Tim.+ Your grace is most methodically welcome. You must pardon my variety of phrase: the courtiers e'en cloy us with good words. +Ant.+ What's he? +Mor.+ A gentleman of Ferrara, sir; one Pedro Sebastiano. +Ant.+ And do ye set her out to sale? I charged ye reserve for me alone. +Tim.+ Indeed, sir---- +Ant.+ Pox of your deeds! [_Kicks her._ +Tim.+ O my sciatica! +Ant.+ Sirrah, you perfumed rascal! [_Kicks +Philippo+. They draw._ +Tim.+ Nay, good my lord. +Mor.+ Good sir, 'tis one of the duke's chamber. +Phil.+ Let him be of the devil's chamber. +Ant.+ Sirrah, leave the house, or I will send thee out with thunder.