_Bob._ Oh craven-chicken of a Cock o' th' game: well, what remedy? did thy Father see this, O' my conscience, he would cut off thy Masculine gender, crop thine ears, beat out thine eyes, and set thee in one of the Pear trees for a scare-crow: As I am _Vitelli_, I am satisfied; But as I am _Bobadilla_, _Spindola, Zancho_, Steward of the house, and thy Fathers Servant, I could find in my heart to lop off the hinder part of thy face, or to beat all thy teeth into thy mouth: Oh thou whay-blooded milk-sop, I'll wait upon thee no longer, thou shalt ev'n wait upon me: come your ways Sir, I shall take a little pains with ye else. _Enter_ Clara. _Cla._ Where art thou brother _Lucio_? ran tan tan ta ran tan ran tan tan ta, ta ran tan tan tan. Oh, I shall no more see those golden daies, these clothes will never fadge with me: a ---- O' this filthy vardingale, this hip-hape: brother, why are womens hanches only limited, confin'd, hoop'd in, as it were with these same scurvy vardingales? _Bob._ Because womens hanches only are most subject to display and flie out. _Cla. Bobadilla_, rogue, ten Duckets, I hit the prepuce of thy Codpiece. _Luc._ Hold, if you love my life, Sister: I am not _Zancho_ _Bobadilla_, I am your brother _Lucio_: what a fright you have put me in! _Cla._ Brother? and wherefore thus? _Luc._ Why, Master Steward here, _Signior Zancho_ made me change: he does nothing but mis-use me, and call me Coward, and swears I shall wait upon him. _Bob._ Well: I do no more than I have authori[t]y for: would I were away though: for she's as much too manish, as he too womanish: I dare not meddle with her, yet I must set a good face on't (if I had it) I have like charge of [you] Madam, I am as well to mollifie you, as to quallifie him: what have you to do with Armors, and Pistols, and Javelins, and swords, and such tools? remember Mistriss; nature hath given you a sheath only, to signifie women are to put up mens weapons, not to draw them: look you now, is this a fit trot for a Gentlewoman? You shall see the Court-Ladies move like Goddesses, as if they trode air; they will swim you their measures, like Whiting-mops, as if their feet were finns, and the hinges of their knees oil'd: doe they love to ride great horses, as you do? no, they love to ride great asses sooner: faith, I know not what to say t' ye both: Custom hath turn'd nature topsie-turvie in you. _Cla._ Nay, but Master Steward. _Bob._ You cannot trot so fast, but he ambles as slowly. _Cla. Signior Spindle_, will you hear me? _Bob._ He that shall come to bestride your Virginity, had better be afoot o'er the Dragon. _Cl[a]._ Very well. _Bob._ Did ever _Spanish_ Lady pace so? _Cla._ Hold these a little. _Luc._ I'll not touch 'em, I.