Cri monologue (Act 3) — Cynthia's Revels; Or, The Fountain of Self-Love

This is nothing. There stands a neophite glazing of his face, Pruning his clothes, perfuming of his hair, Against his idol enters; and repeats, Like an unperfect prologue, at third music, His part of speeches, and confederate jests, In passion to himself. Another swears His scene of courtship over; bids, believe him, Twenty times ere they will; anon, doth seem As he would kiss away his hand in kindness; Then walks off melancholic, and stands wreath'd, As he were pinn'd up to the arras, thus. A third is most in action, swims, and frisks, Plays with his mistress's paps, salutes her pumps; Adores her hems, her skirts, her knots, her curls, Will spend his patrimony for a garter, Or the least feather in her bounteous fan. A fourth, he only comes in for a mute; Divides the act with a dumb show, and exit. Then must the ladies laugh, straight comes their scene, A sixth times worse confusion then the rest. Where you shall hear one talk of this man's eye, Another of his lip, a third, his nose, A fourth commend his leg, a fifth, his foot, A sixth, his hand, and every one a limb; That you would think the poor distorted gallant Must there expire. Then fall they in discourse Of tires, and fashions, how they must take place, Where they may kiss, and whom, when to sit down, And with what grace to rise; if they salute, What court'sy they must use; such cobweb stuff As would enforce the common'st sense abhor Th' Arachnean workers.