An effeminate fool is the figure of a baby. He loves nothing but gay, to
look in a glass, to keep among wenches, and to play with trifles; to
feed on sweetmeats and to be danced in laps, to be embraced in arms, and
to be kissed on the cheek; to talk idly, to look demurely, to go nicely,
and to laugh continually; to be his mistress' servant, and her maid's
master, his father's love and his mother's none-child; to play on a
fiddle and sing a love-song; to wear sweet gloves and look on fine
things; to make purposes and write verses, devise riddles and tell lies;
to follow plays and study dances, to hear news and buy trifles; to sigh
for love and weep for kindness, and mourn for company and be sick for
fashion; to ride in a coach and gallop a hackney, to watch all night and
sleep out the morning; to lie on a bed and take tobacco, and to send his
page of an idle message to his mistress; to go upon gigs, to have his
ruffs set in print, to pick his teeth, and play with a puppet. In sum,
he is a man-child and a woman's man, a gaze of folly, and
wisdom's grief.