_Ten_. Is she not sweet complexiond? _Hen_. As most Ladyes are that studye painting.

_Ten_. What meate will downe your throat, when you scorne pheasant, partridge, woodcocke &coney? Would I had such a dish. _Hen_.

Woodcocke and coney take to you, my _Don_Teniente_ ; Ile none; and because you keepe such a wondering why my stomach goes against the wench (albeit I might find better talke, considering what ladder I stand upon) Ile tell you, signior, what kind of wife I must have or none. _Ten_. Pray let me see her picture.

_Hen_. Draw then this curtaine: Give me a wife that's sound of wind and limbe; Whose teeth can tell her age; whose hand nere felt A touch lascivious; whose eyes are balls Not tossd by her to any but to me; Whose breath stinkes not of sweatmeates; whose lippes kisse Onely themselves and mine; whose tongue nere lay At the signe of the _Bell_. She must not be a scold, No, nor a foole to be in love with Bables[50]; No, nor too wise to think I nere saile true But when she steares the rudder.