Gold. Rich.
I will obey thee: Look here my Girl.
He poures it on the ground.
Mall Mean-bred.
O dear, how it doth shine for∣sooth! it almost blinds mine eyes; take it away, yet pray let it stay: truly I know not what to do with it.
Gold. Rich.
No? why it will buy you rich Gowns, ap'd in the Silk-worms toyls, with stockings of the softer silk, to draw on your finer legs, with rich lace shooes, with roses that seem sweet, and garters laced with spangles like twinckling Stars, embalm your hair with Gessimond Pomaetums, and rain Odoriferous Powders of proud Rome.
Mall Mean-bred.
O Heaven! what a Wench shall I be, could I get them! But shall we have fine things of the Pedlar too?
Gold. Rich.
Buy all their packs, and send them empty home.
Mall Mean-bred.
O mighty! I shall put down all the Wenches at the May-pole; then what will the Bag-piper say, do you think? Pray tell me, for he is a jeering knave.
Gold. Rich.
Despise the Rural company, and that windy bag, change it for Balls with greatest Lords to dance, and bring the Jerkin Fiddles out of frame.
Mall Mean-bred.
Then I shall have a Mail-Pillion, and ride behind our Thomas to the dancing.
Gold. Rich.
No, you shall ride in rich gilt Coaches, Pages and Lacquies in rich Liveries, with Gentlemen well cloath'd, to wait upon you.
Mall Mean-bred.
And be a Lady; then I will be proud, and will not know Thomas any more, nor any Maid that was acquainted with me.
Gold. Rich.
You must forget all those of your Fathers house too; for I'll get a Pedigree shall fit you, and bring you Lineally descended from Great Charlemain.
Mall Mean-bred.
No, I will have it from Charls wayn my Fathers Carter; but I would so fain be a Lady, and it might be: I will be stately, laugh with∣out a cause, and then I am witty, and jeer sometimes, and speak nonsense aloud. But this Gold will not serve for all these fine things.
Gold. Rich.
Why then we will have hundreds and thousands of pounds, until you be pleas'd, so I may but enjoy you in my Arms.
Mall Mean-bred.
No Maid alive can hold our these Assaults, Gold is the Petarr that breaks the Virgins gates, a Souldier told me so. VVell then, my Lord Title, farewel, for you are an empty name; and Sir Effeminate Lovely, go you to your Taylor, make more fine cloaths in vain.
I'll stick to Riches, do then what you will,
The neerest way to pleasure buy it still.
Exeunt.