_Cel._ But doe not barke so like a mastive, pray, Sure they are mad, let your braines stand awhile And settle gentlemen, you know not me, What am I? _Lit._ Tha'rt a puppet, a thing made Of clothes and painting, and not halfe so hansome As that which plaid _Susanna_ in the faire. _Cel._ I heard you visited those canvas tragedies, One of their constant audience, and so taken With _Susan_, that you wish'd your selfe a rivall With the two wicked elders. _Al._ You thinke this Is wit now, come you are-- _Cel._ What I beseech you? Your character will be full of salt and satyre, No doubt, what am I? _Al._ Why you are a woman. _Cel._ And that's at least a bow wide of you knowledge. _Al._ Wo'd be thought hansome, and might passe i'th country Vpon a market day, but miserably Forfeit to pride and fashions, that if heaven Were a new gowne, you'd not stay in't a fortnight. _Cel._ It must be miserably out of fashion then, Have I no sinne but pride? _Al._ Hast any vertue? Or but a good face to excuse that want? _Cel._ You prais'd it yesterday. _Al._ That made you proud. _Cel._ More pride? _Al._ You neede not to close up the praise, I have seene a better countenance in a Sibill. _Cel._ When you wore spectacles of sacke, mistooke The painted cloath, and kist it for your mistresse. _Al._ Let me aske you a question, how much Have you consum'd in expectation That I would love you. _Cel._ Why? I thinke as much As you have paid away in honest debts This seven yeare, tis a pretty impudence, But cannot make me angry. _Lit._ Is there any Man that will cast away his limbes upon her? _Al._ You doe not sing so well as I imagind, Nor dance, you reele in your coranto, and pinch Your petticoate too hard, y'ave no good eare Toth' musicke, and incline too much one shoulder, As you were dancing on the rope, and falling, You speake abominable French, and make A courtsey like a Dairie maide, not mad? _Lit._ Doe we not sting her hansomely. _Bor._ A conspiracie. _Al._ Your state is not so much as tis reported When you conferre notes, all your husbands debts And your owne reconcild----but thats not it Will so much spoile your marriage. _Cel._ As what sir? Let me know all my faults. _Al._ Some men doe whisper You are not over honest. _Cel._ All this shall not Move me to more than laughter, and some pittie, Because you have the shapes of gentlemen, And though you have beene insolent upon me, I will engage no friend to kicke or cudgell you To spoile your living, and your limbes together, I leave that to diseases that offend you, And spare my curse, poore silken Vermine, and Hereafter shall distinguish Men from Monkies. _Bo._ Brave soule, you brace of horseleaches, I have heard Their barbarous language Madam, ya're too mercifull, They shall be silent to your tongue, pray punish e'm.