Jam.

     You sent for me?

     Viol.

     I did, and do’s the favour,
     Your present state considered and my power,
     Deserve no greater Ceremony?

     Jam.

     Ceremonie? 
     I use to pay that where I owe a duty,
     Not to my Brothers wife:  I cannot fawn,
     If you expect it from me, you are cozen’d,
     And so farewel.

     Viol.

     He bears up still; I like it. 
     Pray you a word.

     Jam.

     Yes, I will give you hearing
     On equal terms, and sit by you as a friend,
     But not stand as a Sutor:  Now your pleasure?

     Viol.

     You are very bold.

     Jam.

     ’Tis fit:  since you are proud,
     I was not made to feed that foolish humour,
     With flattery and observance.

     Viol.

     Yet, with your favour,
     A little form joyn’d with respect to her,
     That can add to your wants, or free you from ’em
     (Nay raise you to a fate, beyond your hopes)
     Might well become your wisdom.

     Jam.

     It would rather
     Write me a Fool, should I but only think
     That any good to me could flow from you,
     Whom for so many years I have found and prov’d
     My greatest Enemy:  I am still the same,
     My wants have not transform’d me:  I dare tell you,
     To your new cerus’d face, what I have spoken
     Freely behind your back, what I think of you,
     You are the proudest thing, and have the least
     Reason to be so that I ever read of. 
     In stature you are a Giantess:  and your Tailor
     Takes measure of you with a Jacobs Staff,
     Or he can never reach you, this by the way
     For your large size:  now, in a word or two,
     To treat of your Complexion were decorum: 
     You are so far from fair, I doubt your Mother
     Was too familiar with the Moor that serv’d her,
     Your Limbs and Features I pass briefly over,
     As things not worth description; and come roundly
     To your Soul, if you have any; for ’tis doubtful.
     Viol.  I laugh at this, proceed.

     Jam.

     This Soul I speak of,
     Or rather Salt to keep this heap of flesh
     From being a walking stench, like a large Inn,
     Stands open for the entertainment of
     All impious practices:  but there’s no Corner
     An honest thought can take up:  and as it were not
     Sufficient in your self to comprehend
     All wicked plots, you have taught the Fool, my Brother,
     By your contagion, almost to put off
     The nature of the man, and turn’d him Devil,
     Because he should be like you, and I hope
     Will march to Hell together: