Nor any foolish dolt shall cumber you, but I; I, whoe'er say nay, will stick by you, till I die. Thus, good Mistress Custance, the Lord you save and keep From me, Roister Doister, whether I wake or sleep, Who favoureth you no less (ye may be bold) Than this letter purporteth, which ye have unfold."[124] C. CUSTANCE. How, by this letter of love? is it not fine? R. ROISTER. By the Arms of Calais, it is none of mine. M. MERRY. Fie! you are foul to blame; this is your own hand. C. CUSTANCE. Might not a woman be proud of such an husband? M. MERRY. Ah, that ye would in a letter show such despite! R. ROISTER. O, I would I had him here, the which did it indite! M. MERRY. Why, ye made it yourself, ye told me, by this light! R. ROISTER. Yea, I meant I wrote it mine own self yesternight. C. CUSTANCE. I-wis, sir, I would not have sent you such a mock. R. ROISTER. Ye may so take it; but I meant it not so, by Cock. M. MERRY. Who can blame this woman to fume, and fret, and rage? Tut, tut, yourself now have marred your own marriage. [_Aside._ Well yet, Mistress Custance, if ye can this remit; This gentleman otherwise may your love requite. C. CUSTANCE. No, God be with you both, and seek no more to me. [_Exit._ R. ROISTER. Wough! she is gone for ever, I shall her no more see. M. MERRY. What, weep? Fie for shame! And blubber? For manhood's sake! Never let your foe so much pleasure of you take. Rather play the man's part, and do love refrain: If she despise you, e'en despise ye her again. R. ROISTER. By Goss[125] and for thy sake, I defy her indeed! M. MERRY. Yea, and perchance that way ye shall much sooner speed; For one mad property these women have, in fay,[126] When ye will, they will not: will not ye? then will they. Ah, foolish woman! ah, most unlucky Custance! Ah, unfortunate woman! ah, peevish Custance, Art thou to thine harms so obstinately bent, That thou canst not see where lieth thine high preferment? Canst thou not lub dis man, which could lub dee so well? Art thou so much thine own foe? R. ROISTER. Thou dost the truth tell. M. MERRY. Well, I lament. R. ROISTER. So do I. M. MERRY. Wherefore? R. ROISTER. For this thing, Because she is gone. M. MERRY. I mourn for another thing. R. ROISTER. What is it, Merrygreek, wherefore thou dost grief take? M. MERRY. That I am not a woman myself, for your sake. I would have you myself, and a straw for yond Gill, And mock much of you, though it were against my will. I would not, I warrant you, fall in such a rage, As so to refuse such a goodly personage. R. ROISTER. In faith, I heartily thank thee, Merrygreek. M. MERRY. And I were a woman---- R. ROISTER. Thou wouldest to me seek.