PHA. Come now, Philautia, I am for you; shall we go?
PHI. Ay, good Phantaste: What! have you changed your head-tire?
PHA. Yes, faith; the other was so near the common, it had no
extraordinary grace; besides, I had worn it almost a day, in good
troth.
PHI. I'll be sworn, this is most excellent for the device, and
rare; 'tis after the Italian print we look'd on t'other night.
PHA. 'Tis so: by this fan, I cannot abide any thing that savours
the poor over-worn cut, that has any kindred with it; I must have
variety, I: this mixing in fashion, I hate it worse than to burn
juniper in my chamber, I protest.
PHI. And yet we cannot have a new peculiar court-tire, but these
retainers will have it; these suburb Sunday-waiters; these
courtiers for high days; I know not what I should call 'em --
PHA. O, ay, they do most pitifully imitate; but I have a tire a
coming, i'faith, shall --
MOR. In good certain, madam, it makes you look most heavenly; but,
lay your hand on your heart, you never skinn'd a new beauty more
prosperously in your life, nor more metaphysically: look good lady,
sweet lady, look.
PHI. 'Tis very clear and well, believe me. But if you had seen
mine yesterday, when 'twas young, you would have -- Who's your
doctor, Phantaste?
PHA.
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