Blunt. 'Dsheartlikins, I wonder in what
Country our kinder Stars rule: In England plunder'd, sequester'd,
imprison'd and banish'd; in France, starv'd, walking like the Sign of
the naked Boy, with Plymouth Cloaks in our Hands; in Italy and Spain
robb'd, beaten, and thrown out at Windows. Feth. Well, how happy am I,
in having so true a Friend to condole me in Affliction- [Weeps.] I am
oblig'd to Seignior Harlequin too, for bringing me hither to the
Mountebank's, where I shall not only conceal this Catastrophe from
those fortunate Rogues our Comrades, but procure a little Album
Graecum for my Backside. Come, Seignior, my Clothes- but, Seignior- un
Portavera Poco palanea. [Dresses himself. Harl. Seignior. Feth.
Entende vos Signoria Englesa? Harl. Em Poco, em Poco, Seignior. Feth.
Per quelq arts, did your Seigniorship escape Cudgeling? Harl. La art
de transformatio. Feth. Transformatio- Why, wert thou not born a Man?
Harl. No, Seignior, un vieule Femme. Feth. How, born an old Woman?
Blunt. Good Lord! born an old Woman! And so by transformation became
invulnerable. Feth. Ay- in- invulnerable- what would I give to be
invulnerable? and egad, I am almost weary of being a Man, and subject
to beating: wou'd I were a Woman, a Man has but an ill time on't: if
he has a mind to a Wench, the making Love is so plaguy tedious- then
paying is to my Soul insupportable.
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