Hostis.  How farre is your mistris behinde?

Bos.  The truth is the fatall sisters have cut the thred of her Cork-shoe, & shee’s stept aside in to a Coblers shop to take a true stitch, whether I mean to send myself as a Court of Guard to conduct her, but see, oh inconstant fortune! see where she comes, solus.

    Enter[241] Getica.

Gent. Bos, you serve me well, to let me wait upon my selfe.

Bos.  Of two evils, the least is to be chosen, I had a care of your puppie being less then your selfe.

Scil.  Gentlewoman, you have an excellent Ch:  [sic] I have an appetite as a man would say.

Gent.  Whats your will, sir?

Scil.  Truth will to light, and the truth is I have an appetite to kisse you.

Phil.  This point would become a Gentleman, sure; I pray, who trim’d it so?

Gent.  My man, forsooth.

Phy.  Sir, I desire your acquaintance; tis excellent, rare.

Gent.  You would have said so, had you seene it an houre since.

Ser.  Heeres game for me!  I hunt for fooles and have sprung a covey.

Hostis.  Gentles, please you, draw neere? lead the way into the chambers.

Bos. Bos is the name of a thing may be seene, felt, heard, or understood, and the nominative case goes before my Mistris the Verbe; my mistris requires an accusative case to follow, as usus feminae proptus facit.
           [Exeunt al but Hostis.

Hostis.  Oh fye upont, who would be an hostis, & could do otherwise? [A] Ladie [h]as the most lascivious life, conges and kisses, the tyre, the hood, the rebato, the loose bodyed Gowne, the pin in the haire, and everie day change, when an Hostis must come and go at everye mans pleasure.  And what’s a Lady more then another body?  Wee have legs, and hands, rowling eyes and hanging lips, sleek browes, and cherie cheeks & other things as Ladies have, but the fashion carries it away.

Prentices passe over. [Re-enter[242] Host.]

Host.  There, there, my little Lacky boies, againe, again, my fine fil-pots! where is my fine Hostis? come, come, my little Dido, set your corks on a creaking, my knaves are unthrifty; dance not your Canaries heere up & down, looke about to my Guests I say.

Hostis.  I, I have much joy, an Hostesse!

Host.  What, abides my Penelope? heere stand[s] thy Ulisses, ile tarry with thee still, thou shall want for no cost.  Ile buy thee a brave wistle; looke about to my Guestes, I say.

Hostis.  I, Hostesses will bee knowne shortelye as their Signes; still in one weather-beaten suite, as though none weare hoodes but Monkes and Ladies, and feathers but fore-horses and Waiting Gentlewomen, or chaines but prisoners and Courtiers; no Perywigges but Players and Pictures:  but the weakest must to the wall still.