Merecraft, Wittipol, [To them.
Wittipol, drest like a Spanish Lady.
Mer.
Here is a noble Lady, Madam, come,
From your great Friends, at Court, to see your
Ladiship:
And have the Honour of your Acquaintance.
Tay.
Sir.
She do's us Honour.
Wit.
Pray you, say to her Ladiship,
It is the manner of Spain to imbrace only,
Never to kiss. She will excuse the Custom!
[Excuses himself for not kissing.
Tay.
Your use of it is Law. Please you sweet Madam,
To take a Seat.
Wit.
Yes, Madam. I' have had
The favour, through a World of fair report
To know your Vertues, Madam; and in that
Name, have desir'd the happiness of presenting
My Service to your Ladiship!
Tay.
Your Love, Madam,
I must not own it else.
Wit.
Both are due, Madam,
To your great Undertakings.
Tay.
Great? In troth, Madam,
They are my Friends, that think 'em any thing:
If I can do my Sex (by 'em) any Service,
I' have my ends, Madam.
Wit.
And they are noble ones,
That make a Multitude beholden, Madam:
The Commonwealth of Ladies, must acknowledge from you.
Eit.
Except some envious, Madam.
Wit.
Yo' are right in that, Madam,
Of which Race, I encountred some but lately.
Who ('t seems) have studyed Reasons to discredit
Your Business.
Tay.
How, sweet Madam.
Wit.
Nay, the Parties
Wi' not be worth your pause — Most ruinous things,
Madam,
That have put off all hope of being recover'd
To a degree of handsomness.
Tay.
But their Reasons, Madam?
I would fain hear.
Wit.
Some Madam, I remember.
They say, that painting quite destroys the Face —
Eit.
O, that's an old one, Madam,
Wit.
There are new ones, too.
Corrupts the Breath; hath left so little sweetness
In kissing, as 'tis now us'd but for Fashion:
And shortly will be taken for a Punishment.
Decays the Fore-teeth that should guard the Tongue;
And suffers that run Riot everlasting!
And (which is worse) some Ladies when they meet
Cannot be merry and laugh, but they do spit
In one anothers Faces!
Man.
I should know
This Voyce and Face too:
[Manly begins to know him.
Wit.
Then, they say, 'tis dangerous
To all the faln, yet well dispos'd Mad-dams,
That are industrious, and desire to earn
Their Living with their Sweat! For any Distemper
Of heat and motion, may displace the Colours;
And if the Paint once run about their Faces,
Twenty to one, they will appear so ill-favour'd,
Their Servants run away too, and leave the Pleasure
Imperfect, and the Reckoning als' unpay'd.
Eit.
Pox, these are Poets Reasons.
Tay.
Some old Lady
That keeps a Poet, has devis'd these Scandals.
Eit.
Faith we must have the Poets banish'd, Madam,
As Master Either-side says.
Mer.
Master Fitz-Dottrel?
And his Wife: where? Madam, the Duke of Drown'd-land,
That will be shortly.
Wit.
Is this my Lord?
Mer.
The same.