STAINES. Serve! no, sir; I have talked with the great Sophy.
BUB. I pray, sir, what's the lowest price of being Italianated?
STAINES. Sir, if it please you, I will stand to your bounty: and, mark me, I will set your face like a grand signior's, and you shall march a whole day, until you come opunctly[212] to your mistress, and not disrank one hair of your physiognomy.
BUB. I would you would do it, sir; if you will stand to my bounty, I will pay you, as I am an Italian, _Tu quoque_.
STAINES. Then, sir, I will first disburthen you of your cloak; you will be the nimbler to practise. Now, sir, observe me: go you directly to the lady to whom you devote yourself.
BUB. Yes, sir.
STAINES. You shall set a good staid face upon the matter then. Your band is not to your shirt, is it?
BUB. No, sir, 'tis loose.
STAINES. It is the fitter for my purpose. I will first remove your hat.
It has been the fashion (as I have heard) in England to wear your hat thus, in your eyes; but it is gross, naught, inconvenient, and proclaims with a loud voice that he that brought it up first stood in fear of serjeants. Your Italian is contrary: he doth advance his hat, and sets it thus.
BUB. Excellent well: I would you would set it on my head so.
STAINES. Soft; I will first remove your band, and set it out of the reach of your eyes; it must lie altogether backward. So: your band is well.
BUB. Is it as you would have it?
STAINES. It is as I would wish; only, sir, this I must caution you of, in your affront[213] or salute, never to move your hat; but here, here is your courtesy.
BUB. Nay, I warrant you; let me alone, if I perceive a thing once, I'll carry it away. Now, pray, sir, reach my cloak.
STAINES. Never, whilst you live, sir.
BUB. No! what, do you Italians wear no cloaks!
STAINES. Your signiors, never: you see I am unfurnished myself.
_Enter_ Sir Lionel, WILL RASH, GERALDINE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE, _and_ JOYCE.
BUB. Say ye so? prythee, keep it, then. See! yonder's the company that I look for; therefore, if you will set my face of any fashion, pray do it quickly.
STAINES. You carry your face as well as e'er an Italian in the world; only enrich it with a smile, and 'tis incomparable: and thus much more--at your first appearance, you shall perhaps strike your acquaintance into an ecstasy, or perhaps a laughter; but 'tis ignorance in them, which will soon be overcome, if you persevere.
BUB. I will persevere, I warrant thee: only do thou stand aloof, and be not seen; because I would not have them think but I fetch it out of my own practice.
STAINES. Do not you fear; I'll not be seen, I warrant you. [_Exit._
SIR LIONEL. Now, widow, you are welcome to my house, And to your own house too, so you may call it; For what is mine is yours: you may command here As at home, and be as soon obey'd.
WID. May I deserve this kindness of you, sir?
BUB. Save you, gentlemen. I salute you after the Italian fashion.
W. RASH. How! the Italian fashion? Zounds! he has dressed him rarely.
SIR LIONEL. My son Bubble, I take it?
W. RASH. The nether part of him I think is he; But what the upper part is, I know not.
[GER.] By my troth, he's a rare fellow.
BUB. He said true; They are all in an ecstasy. [_Aside._]
GERT. I think he's mad. [_Aside._]
JOYCE. Nay, that cannot be; for they say, they that are mad lose their wits, and I am sure he had none to lose. [_Aside._]
_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD.
SIR LIONEL. How now, son Bubble? how come you thus attir'd?
What! do you mean to make yourself a laughing-stock, ha?
BUB. Um! Ignorance, ignorance. [_Aside._]
GERA. For the love of laughter, look yonder: Another herring in the same pickle.
W. RASH. T'other hobby-horse, I perceive, is not forgotten.[214]
BUB. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
SCAT. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
BUB. Who has made him such a coxcomb, trow?
An Italian _Tu quoque_?
SCAT. I salute you according to the Italian fashion.
BUB. Puh! the Italian fashion! The tattered-demalian fashion he means.
SCAT. Save you, sweet bloods, save you.
SIR LIONEL. Why, but what jig is this?
SCAT. Nay, if I know, father, would I were hanged. I am e'en as innocent as the child new-born.
SIR LIONEL. Ay, but son Bubble, where did you two buy your felts?
SCAT. Felts! By this light, mine is a good beaver: It cost me three pounds this morning upon trust.
SIR LIONEL. Nay, I think you had it upon trust, for no man that has any shame in him would take money for it. Behold, sir.
BUB. Ha, ha, ha!