The Tragedy of
For an eminent fellow.
Bos.
I will teach a tricke to know it,
Give out you lie a dying, and if you
Heare the common people curse you,
Be sure you are taken for one of the prime night-caps,
You come from painting now?
Old Lady.
From what?
Bos.
Why, from your scurvy face-physicke,
To behold thee not painted enclines somewhat neere
A miracle: These in thy face here, were deepe rutts,
And foule sloughes the last progresse:
There was a Lady in France, that having had the small pockes,
Flead the skinne off her face, to make it more levell;
And whereas before she look'd like a Nutmeg-grater,
After she resembled an abortive hedge-hog.
Old Lady.
Doe you call this painting?
Bos.
No, no but you call carreening of an old
Morphew'd Lady, to make her disembogue againe,
There's rough-cast phrase to your plastique.
Old Lady.
It seemes you are well acquainted with my closset?
Bos.
One would suspect it for a shop of witch-craft,
To finde in it the fat of Serpents; spawne of Snakes, Jewes spittle,
And their yong children ordures, and all these for the face:
I would sooner eate a dead pidgeon, taken from the soles of the feete
Of one sicke of the plague, then kisse one of you fasting:
Here are two of you, whose sin of your youth, is the very
Patrimony of the Physition, makes him renew his
Foote-cloth with the Spring, and change his
High-priz'd curtezan with the fall of the leafe:
I do wonder you doe not loath your selves,
Observe my meditation now:
What thing is in this outward forme of man
To be belov'd? we account it ominous,
If Nature doe produce a Colt, or Lambe,
A Fawne, or Goate, in any limbe resembling
A Man; and flye from't as a prodegy.
Man stands amaz'd to see his deformity,
In
