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Cris. She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress. Alb. For fault of a better, sir. Tuc. A better! profane rascal: I cry thee mercy, my good scroyle, was't thou? Alb. No harm, captain. Tuc. She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene: come hither, Penelope; what's thy name, Iris? Chloe. My name is Chloe, sir; I am a gentlewoman. Tuc. Thou art in merit to be an empress, Chloe, for an eye and a lip; thou hast an emperor's nose: kiss me again: 'tis a virtuous punk; so! Before Jove, the gods were a sort of goslings, when they suffered so sweet a breath to perfume the bed of a stinkard: thou hadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate, they were, punk, they were. Chloe. That's sure, sir: let me crave your name, I pray you, sir. Tuc. I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, punk; the noble Roman, punk: a gentleman, and a commander, punk. [Walks aside. Chloe. In good time: a gentleman, and a commander! that's as good as a poet, methinks. Cris. A pretty instrument! It's my cousin Cytheris' viol this, is it not? Cyth. Nay, play, cousin; it wants but such a voice and hand to grace it, as yours is. Cris. Alas, cousin, you are merrily inspired. Cyth. Pray you play, if you love me. Cris. Yes, cousin; you know I do not hate you. Tib. A most subtile wench! how she hath baited him with a viol yonder, for a song! Cris. Cousin, 'pray you call mistress Chloe! she shall hear an essay of my poetry. Tuc. I'll call her.--Come hither, cockatrice: here's one will set thee up, my sweet punk, set thee up. Chloe. Are you a poet so soon, sir? CRlSPINUS plays and sings. Love is blind, and a wanton; In the whole world, there is scant one ----Such another: No, not his mother. He hath pluck'd her doves and sparrows, To feather his sharp arrows, And alone prevaileth, While sick Venus waileth. But if Cypris once recover The wag; it shall behove her To look better to him: Or she will undo him. Alb. Wife, mum. Alb. O, most odoriferous music! Tuc. Aha, stinkard! Another Orpheus, you slave, another Orpheus! an Arion riding on t
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