_Host_. Tut, tut, thou art a foole, keepe her close from the poticarie, let her taste of no licoras, twill make her long winded; no plums, nor no parseneps, no peares, nor no Popperins, sheele dreame in her sleep then; let her live vpon Hasels, give her nuts for her dyet, while a toothe's in her head, give her cheese for disgestion,[307] twil make her short winded; if that will not serve, set fire to the pan and blow her up with Gun-powder. _Cittie wife_. I, I, mine Host, you are well imployed to give a man counsell against his wife; they are apt enough to ill I warrant ye. _Cornu_. Mum, mum, my sweet wife, I know the world wel enough; I have an eare but I heare not, an eye but I see not, what's spoke against thee I regard not; mum, mum, I knowe the world well enough. _Cittie wife_. I, and twere more seemely you were at your owne house too; your wife cannot goe abroad, but you must follow; husbands must bee fringed to their wives Petticoates. I pray you tarrie you, ile goe home. _Cor_. Not so, my sweet wife, I am gone, I am vanisht; mum, mum, no anger shall stirre thee; no words, I know the world well inough. _Hostis_. Twere better, by thrice deuce-ace, in a weeke every woman could awe her husband so well as she. _Gracc_. Ist possible? s'foot, well I thought it had bene but a fable al this while that _Iole_ shold make great _Hercules_ spit on his thombes and spin, but now I see if a man were as great as _Caesar, Julius_ or _Augustus_, or both in one, a woman may take him downe. _Hostis_. Gossip, faith ile use a little of your counsel, but my husband is so fat, I feare I shall never bring him to it. _Grac_. Now, gentles, you that can, prepare a few teares to shed, for now enters a sad sceane of sorrowe. _Enter Fryer and Course_. _Fryer_. Man is flesh and flesh is fraile, The strongest man at length must faile; Man is flesh and flesh is grasse; Consuming time, as in a glasse, Now is up and now is downe And is not purchast by a Crowne; Now seede, and now we are sowen, Now we wither, now are mowen; _Frater noster_ heere doth lye, _In paupertate_ he did die, And now is gone his _viam longam_ That leades unto his _requiem aeternam_; But dying needie, poore and bare, Wanting to discharge the Fryer, Unto his grave hee's like to passe Having neither Dirge nor Masse: So set forward, let him goe, _Et benedicamus Domino_. _Phy_. And then to _Apollo_ hollo, trees, hollo.--Tapster a few more cloathes to my feete. _Omnes_. Oh heavens! _Acut_. Gentles, keep your places, feare nothing; in the name of God, what art thou? _Phy_. My Hearse and winding-sheete! what meanes this? why, Gentles, I am a living man. _Acut_. Spirit, thou ly'st; thou deludest us. _Citty wife_. Conjure him, Fryer.