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He. Madam, I faid this to try you, for really I am a clock-maker. She, Worse again for you cheat us of our time, which is certainly the most precious thing in the world, A man may walk many streets before he hear two clocks strike at once.
He. Madam, I am both a painter and a poet.
She. Then you are a liar and flatterer by trade.
He. Then you condemn the two finest arts in the world.
She. That’s false, poetry is a gift not an art.
He. But what makes you dislike painters and limners. How do they lie and flatter?
She. One instance may suffice. My mother, who is as odd and ugly as old mother Shipton, one of these rogues, the other day drew her picture as fair as a Venus.
He. Madam, I did but jest all this while, I am a licensed physician.
She. Then you poison and murder people with a licence, and death and all the attendant diseases are you faults.
He. Madam, you are a little mistaken, I am a lawyer bred.
