I vow to Fortune, Ned, thou must come
to London, and be a little manag'd: 'slife, Man, shouldst thou
talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange
Fellow. Pretty--and drest with Love--a find Figure, by Fortune:
No, Ned, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary
Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune,
that you shall not know one from t'other, till some scandalous,
out-of-favour'd laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry--Damn her
for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards me--She has forgot
since Jack--such a one, and I,