MER. These are Bolognian ribands, I warrant you.
MIL. In truth, sir, if they be not right Granado silk --
MER. A pox on you, you'll all say so.
MIL. You give me not a penny, sir.
MER. Come, sir, perfume my devant;
"May it ascend, like solemn sacrifice,
Into the nostrils of the Queen of Love!"
HED. Your French ceremonies are the best.
ANA. Monsieur, signior, your Solemn Address is too long; the
ladies long to have you come on.
AMO. Soft, sir, our coming on is not so easily prepared. Signior
Fig!
PER. Ay, sir.
AMO. Can you help my complexion, here?
PER. O yes, sir, I have an excellent mineral fucus for the
purpose. The gloves are right, sir; you shall bury them in a
muck-hill, a draught, seven years, and take them out and wash them,
they shall still retain their first scent, true Spanish. There's
ambre in the umbre.
MER. Your price, sweet Fig?
PER. Give me what you will, sir; the signior pays me two crowns a
pair; you shall give me your love, sir.
MER. My love! with a pox to you, goodman Sassafras.
PER. I come, sir. There's an excellent diapasm in a chain, too,
if you like it.
AMO. Stay, what are the ingredients to your fucus?
PER. Nought but sublimate and crude mercury, sir, well prepared
and dulcified, with the jaw-bones of a sow, burnt, beaten, and
searced.
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