arm, Antonio:  do I not grow fat? I am exceeding short-winded.—Bosola, I would have you, sir, provide for me a litter; Such a one as the Duchess of Florence rode in. BOSOLA. The duchess us'd one when she was great with child. DUCHESS. I think she did.—Come hither, mend my ruff:   Here, when? thou art such a tedious lady; and Thy breath smells of lemon-pills:  would thou hadst done! Shall I swoon under thy fingers? I am So troubled with the mother![41]    BOSOLA.  [Aside.]             I fear too much. DUCHESS. I have heard you say that the French courtiers Wear their hats on 'fore that king. ANTONIO. I have seen it. DUCHESS. In the presence?    ANTONIO. Yes. DUCHESS. Why should not we bring up that fashion?   'Tis ceremony more than duty that consists In the removing of a piece of felt. Be you the example to the rest o' th' court; Put on your hat first. ANTONIO. You must pardon me:   I have seen, in colder countries than in France, Nobles stand bare to th' prince; and the distinction Methought show'd reverently. BOSOLA. I have a present for your grace. DUCHESS. For me, sir? BOSOLA. Apricocks, madam. DUCHESS. O, sir, where are they? I have heard of none to-year[42]    BOSOLA.  [Aside.]              Good; her colour rises. DUCHESS. Indeed, I thank you:  they are wondrous fair ones. What an unskilful fellow is our gardener! We shall have none this month. BOSOLA. Will not your grace pare them? DUCHESS. No:  they taste of musk, methinks; indeed they do. BOSOLA. I know not:  yet I wish your grace had par'd 'em. DUCHESS. Why? BOSOLA. I forgot to tell you, the knave gardener, Only to raise his profit by them the sooner, Did ripen them in horse-dung. DUCHESS. O, you jest.—   You shall judge:  pray, taste one. ANTONIO. Indeed, madam, I do not love the fruit. DUCHESS. Sir, you are loth To rob us of our dainties.  'Tis a delicate fruit; They say they are restorative. BOSOLA.                        'Tis a pretty art, This grafting. DUCHESS.  'Tis so; a bettering of nature. BOSOLA. To make a pippin grow upon a crab, A damson on a black-thorn.—[Aside.] How greedily she eats them! A whirlwind strike off these bawd farthingales! For, but for that and the loose-bodied gown, I should have discover'd apparently[43]   The young springal[44] cutting a caper in her belly. DUCHESS. I thank you, Bosola:  they were right good ones, If they do not make me sick. ANTONIO. How now, madam! DUCHESS. This green fruit and my 

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