MAR. Did you call, sir?
GORG. Where are your mistresses?
MAR. In their room.
GORG. What are they doing there?
MAR. Making lip salve.
GORG. There is no end of their salves. Bid them come down. (_Alone_).
These hussies with their salves have, I think, a mind to ruin me.
Everywhere in the house I see nothing but whites of eggs, lac virginal,
and a thousand other fooleries I am not acquainted with. Since we have
been here they have employed the lard of a dozen hogs at least, and four
servants might live every day on the sheep's trotters they use.