SCENE I.--_A Street.

_Enter at one side_ HIPPOLITO; _at the other_, LODOVICO, ASTOLFO, CAROLO, BERALDO _and_ FONTINELL.

LOD. Yonder’s the Lord Hippolito; by any means leave him and me together; now will I turn him to a madman.

_Ast._, _Car._, _&c._ Save you my lord.

[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO _and_ LODOVICO.

_Lod._ I ha’ strange news to tell you.

_Hip._ What are they?

_Lod._ Your mare’s i’th’ pound.

_Hip._ How’s this?

_Lod._ Your nightingale is in a limebush.

_Hip._ Ha?

_Lod._ Your puritanical honest whore sits in a blue gown.[304]

[304] It was in a blue gown that strumpets had to do penance.

_Hip._ Blue gown!

_Lod._ She’ll chalk out your way to her now: she beats chalk.

_Hip._ Where? who dares?--

_Lod._ Do you know the brick-house of castigation, by the river side[305] that runs by Milan,--the school where they pronounce no letter well but O?

[305] Meaning Bridewell, where loose women were whipped.

_Hip._ I know it not.

_Lod._ Any man that has borne office of constable, or any woman that has fallen from a horse-load to a cart-load,[306] or like an old hen that has had none but rotten eggs in her nest, can direct you to her: there you shall see your punk amongst her back-friends.

[306] An allusion to the carting of prostitutes, who were at the same time pelted by the populace with rotten eggs.

There you may have her at your will, For there she beats chalk, or grinds in the mill[307] With a whip deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle; Ah little monkey.

[307] Breaking chalk, grinding in mills, raising sand and gravel and making of lime were among the employments assigned to vagrants and others committed to Bridewell.--_Reed._

_Hip._ What rogue durst serve that warrant, knowing I loved her?

_Lod._ Some worshipful rascal, I lay my life.

_Hip._ I’ll beat the lodgings down about their ears That are her keepers.

_Lod._ So you may bring an old house over her head.

_Hip_. I’ll to her-- I’ll to her, stood armed fiends to guard the doors. [_Exit._

_Lod._ Oh me! what monsters are men made by whores! If this false fire do kindle him, there’s one faggot More to the bonfire. Now to my Bridewell birds; What song will they sing? [_Exit._