No, no, you are the whole heaven awry, guardian; 'tis the
swaggering coach-horse Anaides draws with him there, has been the
diverter of him.
PHI. For Cupid's sake speak no more of him; would I might never
dare to look in a mirror again, if I respect ever a marmoset of 'em
all, otherwise than I would a feather, or my shuttle-cock, to make
sport with now and then.
PHA. Come sit down: troth, and you be good beauties, let's run
over them all now: Which is the properest man amongst them? I
say, the traveller, Amorphus.
PHI. O, fie on him, he looks like a Venetian trumpeter in the
battle of Lepanto, in the gallery yonder; and speaks to the tune of
a country lady that comes ever in the rearward or train of a
fashion.
MOR. I should have judgment in a feature, sweet beauties.
PHA. A body would think so, at these years.
MOR. And I prefer another now, far before him, a million at least.
PHA. Who might that be, guardian?
MOR. Marry, fair charge, Anaides.
PHA. Anaides! you talk'd of a tune, Philautia; there's one speaks
in a key, like the opening of some justice's gate, or a postboy's
horn, as if his voice feared an arrest for some ill words it should
give, and were loth to come forth.
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