_St._ They are Arras Madam. _Cel._ Impudence I know't, I will have fresher and more rich, not wrought With faces that may scandalise a Christian With Iewish stories stufft with Corne and Camells, You had best wrap all my chambers in wild Irish, And make a nursery of Monsters here, To fright the Ladies comes to visite me. _St._ Madam I hope. _Cel._ I say I will have other, Good Master Steward of a finer loome, Some silke and silver if your worship please, To let me be at so much cost Ile have Stories to fit the seasons of the yeare, And change as often as I please. _St._ You shall Madam. _Cel._ I am bound to your consent forsooth, and is My coach brought home? _St._ This morning I expect it. _Cel._ The inside as I gave direction, Of crimson plush. _St._ Of crimson Camell plush. _Cel._ Ten thousand mothes consum't, shall I ride through The streets in penance wrapt up round in haire cloath, Sel't to an Alderman, twill serve his wife To goe a feasting to their country house, Or fetch a Merchants Nurse child, and come home Laden with fruite and Cheese-cakes; I despise it. _St._ The nailes adorne it Madam, set in method And pretty formes. _Cel._ But single guilt I warrant. _St._ No Madam. _Cel._ Another Solecisme, oh fie, This fellow will bring me to a Consumption With fretting at his ignorance, some Lady Had rather never pray, than goe to Church in't; The nailes not double guilt? to market wo't, Twill hackny out to Mile-end, or convey Your citie tumblers to be drunke with Creame And Prunes at Islington. _St._ Good Madam heare me. _Cel._ Ile rather be beholding to my Aunt The Countesse for her mourning coach, then be Disparag'd so, shall any juggling tradsman Be at charge to shooe his running horse with gold, And shall my coach nailes be but single guilt? How dare these knaves abuse me so? _St._ Vouchsafe To heare me speake. _Cel._ Is my Sedan yet finish'd? And liveries for my men--Mules according As I gave charge. _St._ Yes Madam it is finish'd, But without tilting plumes at the foure corners, The scarlet's pure, but not embroidered. _Cel._ What mischiefe were it to your conscience Were my coach lin'd with tissue, and my harnesse Cover'd with needleworke? if my Sedan Had all the story of the Prodigall, Embrodered with pearle. _St._ Alas good Madam, I know tis your owne cost, I am but your Steward, And wod discharge my duty the best way, You have beene pleasd to heare me, tis not for My profit, that I manage your estate, And save expence, but for your honour Madam.