I am Pride; I disdain to have any parents. I am

like to Ovid's Flea; I can creep into every corner of a

wench. Sometimes, like a periwig, I sit upon her

brow. Next, like a necklace, I hang about her neck.

Then, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her, and then tur-

ning myself to a wrought smock do what I list. But fie,

what a smell is here? I'll not speak a word more for a

king's ransom, unless the ground be perfumed, and covered

with cloth of arras.