Med. This vizard is a spark, and has a genius that makes her worthy of yourself, Dorimant.

Enter Handy, Shoemaker, and Footman.

Dor. You rogue there, who sneak like a dog that has flung down a dish, if you do not mend your waiting I’ll uncase you, and turn you loose to the wheel of fortune. Handy, seal this, and let him run with it presently.

[Exeunt Handy and Footman.

Med. Since you’re resolved on a quarrel, why do you send her this kind note?

Dor. To keep her at home in order to the business. [To the Shoemaker.] How now, you drunken sot?

Shoem. ’Zbud, you have no reason to talk; I have not had a bottle of sack of yours in my belly this fortnight.

Med. The orange-woman says your neighbours take notice what a heathen you are, and design to inform the bishop and have you burned for an atheist.

Shoem. Damn her, dunghill! if her husband does not remove her, she stinks so the parish intend to indict him for a nuisance.

Med. I advise you like a friend, reform your life; you have brought the envy of the world upon you by living above yourself. Whoring and swearing are vices too genteel for a shoemaker.

Shoem. ’Zbud, I think you men of quality will grow as unreasonable as the women; you would engross the sins o the nation; poor folks can no sooner be wicked, but they’re railed at by their betters.

Dor. Sirrah, I’ll have you stand i’ the pillory for this libel.

Shoem. Some of you deserve it, I’m sure; there are so many of ’em, that our journeymen nowadays, instead of harmless ballads, sing nothing but your damned lampoons.

Dor. Our lampoons, you rogue?

Shoem. Nay, good master, why should not you write your own commentaries as well as Cæsar?

Med. The rascal’s read, I perceive.

Shoem. You know the old proverb—ale and history.

Dor. Draw on my shoes, sirrah.

Shoem. Here’s a shoe

Dor. Sits with more wrinkles than there are in an angry bully’s forehead.

Shoem. ’Zbud, as smooth as your mistress’s skin does upon her; so strike your foot in home. ’Zbud, if e’er a monsieur of ’em all make more fashionable wear, I’ll be content to have my ears whipped off with my own paring-knife.

Med. And served up in a ragoût instead of coxcombs to a company of French shoemakers for a collation.

Shoem. Hold, hold! damn ’em, caterpillars! let ’em feed upon cabbage. Come, master, your health this morning next my heart now.

Dor. Go, get you home, and govern your family better; do not let your wife follow you to the alehouse, beat your whore, and lead you home in triumph.