Act. 4.
Scaen. 1.
HOw go••••▪ your Watches Ladies? what's a clock now?
By mine full nine.
By mine a quarter past:
I set mine by St. Marks.
St. Anthonies they say goes truer.
He's a true Gentleman then.
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HOw go••••▪ your Watches Ladies? what's a clock now?
By mine full nine.
By mine a quarter past:
I set mine by St. Marks.
St. Anthonies they say goes truer.
He's a true Gentleman then.
You do wisely in't.
It does indeed forsooth; mine's nearest truth yet.
Y'are richly plac'd.
Methinks y'are wond'rous brave Sir.
A sumptuous lodging.
Y'ave an excellent Suit there.
A Chair of Velvet.
Is your cloak lin'd through Sir.
Y'are very stately here.
Faith something proud Sir.
Stay, stay, let's see your Cloth of silver Slippers?
Who's your Shoomaker, h'as made you a neat Boot.
Yes, when I ride.
'Tis a brave life you lead.
In your time?
Y'are a whore.
Fear nothing Sir.
An impudent spightful strumpet.
Take heed you play not then too long with him.
Who's that?
Cry you mercy Sir.
Prethee who's that?
Still!
I love peace Sir.
My Lord.
He was the last man I saw, my Lord.
My lov'd Lord.
Of him my Lord:
Yes of a bed-fellow; is the news so strange to you?
I hope 'tis so to all.
One Leantio.
He's a Factor.
He nev'r made so brave a voyage by his own talk.
You look on me.
How!
If you have done, I have, no more sweet Brother.
My Lord:
I'll hurry away presently.
Help, help, Oh part 'em.
Not any thing.
Our honors enemy.
Know you this man Lady?
How's that good Madam?
Oh Sordido, Sordido, I'm damn'd, I'm damn'd!
Dam'd, why Sir!
One of the wicked; do'st not see't, a Cuckold, a plain rebrobate Cuckold.
That will be some comfort yet.
Nay there's a worse name belongs to this
fruit yet, and you could hit on't, a more open one: For he that marries a whore, looks like a fellow bound all his life time to a Medler-tree, and that's good stuff; 'tis no sooner ripe, but it looks rotten; and so do some Queans at nineteen. A pox on't, I thought there was some knavery a broach, for something stir'd in her belly, the first night I lay with her.
What, what Sir!
This is she brought up so courtly, can sing, and dance, and tumble too, methinks, I'll never marry wife again, that has so many qualities.
Indeed they are seldom good Master; for likely when they are taught so many, they will have one trick more of their own finding out. Well, give me a wench but with one good quality, to lye with none but her husband, and that's bringing up enough for any woman breathing.
This was the fault, when she was tend'red to me; you never look'd to this.
Alas, how would you have me see through a great Farthingal Sir! I cannot peep through a Mil∣stone, or in the going, to see what's done i'th' bottom.
'Tis but the tune of your wives Sinquapace, Danc'd in a Fetherbed; Faith, go lye down Master—but take heed your Horns do not make holes in the Pillowbers.—I would not batter brows with him for a Hogshead of Angels, he would prick my skull as full of holes as a Scriveners Sand-Box.
Peace! I'll strive Sir:
Pray rise good Sister.
Why thus tuneful now!
I see his Grace thinks on me.
Does he marry her then?
What say you Neece?
I am content to make one.
That will they Sir.
You'll play your old part still.
What, is't good? troth I have ev'n forgot it.
Why Iuno Pronuba, the Marriage-God∣dess.
'Tis right indeed.
Sacrifice good Sir?
Must I be appeased then?
That's as you list your self, as you see cause.
I weigh not, so I have one.