And laughter of your light land-syren here,
Your Sporus, your hermaphrodite--

PER: What's here?
Poetic fury, and historic storms?

SIR P: The gentleman, believe it, is of worth,
And of our nation.

LADY P: Ay, your White-friars nation.
Come, I blush for you, master Would-be, I;
And am asham'd you should have no more forehead,
Than thus to be the patron, or St. George,
To a lewd harlot, a base fricatrice,
A female devil, in a male outside.

SIR P: Nay,
And you be such a one, I must bid adieu
To your delights. The case appears too liquid.

[EXIT.]

LADY P: Ay, you may carry't clear, with your state-face!--
But for your carnival concupiscence,
Who here is fled for liberty of conscience,
From furious persecution of the marshal,
Her will I dis'ple.

PER: This is fine, i'faith!
And do you use this often? Is this part