MRS BAR. And that's my spite. But yet methinks the dice runs much uneven. That I throw but deuce-ace and you eleven. MRS GOUR. And yet you see that I cast down the hill. MRS BAR. Ay, I beshrew ye, 'tis not with my will. MRS GOUR. Do ye beshrew me? MRS BAR. No, I beshrew the dice, That turn you up more at once than me at twice. MRS GOUR. Well, you shall see them turn for you anon. MRS BAR. But I care not for them, when your game is done. MRS GOUR. My game! what game? MRS BAR. Your game, your game at tables. MRS GOUR. Well, mistress, well; I have read Aesop's fables, And know your moral meaning well enough. MRS BAR. Lo, you'll be angry now! here's[219] good stuff. MR GOUR. How now, women?[220] who hath won the game? MRS GOUR. Nobody yet. MR BAR. Your wife's the fairest for't. MRS BAR. Ay, in your eye. MRS GOUR. How do you mean? MRS BAR. He holds you fairer for't than I. MRS GOUR. For what, forsooth? MRS BAR. Good gamester, for your game. MR BAR. Well, try it out; 'tis all but in the bearing[221]. MRS BAR. Nay, if it come to bearing, she'll be best. MRS GOUR. Why, you're as good a bearer as the rest. MRS BAR. Nay, that's not so; you bear one man too many. MRS GOUR. Better do so than bear not any. MR BAR. Beshrew me, but my wife's jests grow too bitter; Plainer speeches for her were more fitter[222]: Malice lies embowelled in her tongue, And new hatch'd hate makes every jest a wrong. [_Aside_.] MRS GOUR. Look ye, mistress, now I hit ye. MRS BAR. Why, ay, you never use to miss a blot[223], Especially when it stands so fair to hit. MRS GOUR. How mean ye, Mistress Barnes? MRS BAR. That Mistress Goursey's in the hitting vein. MRS GOUR. I hot[224] your man. MRS BAR. Ay, ay, my man, my man; but, had I known, I would have had my man stood nearer home. MRS GOUR. Why, had ye kept your man in his right place, I should not then have hit him with an ace. MRS BAR. Right, by the Lord! a plague upon the bones! MRS GOUR. And a hot mischief on the curser too! MR BAR. How now, wife? MR GOUR. Why, what's the matter, woman? MRS GOUR. It is no matter; I am-- MRS BAR. Ay, you are-- MRS GOUR. What am I? MRS BAR. Why, that's as you will be ever. MRS GOUR. That's every day as good as Barnes's wife. MRS BAR. And better too: then, what needs all this trouble? A single horse is worse than that bears double. MR BAR. Wife, go to, have regard to what you say; Let not your words pass forth the verge of reason, But keep within the bounds of modesty; For ill-report doth like a bailiff stand, To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue, And makes it forfeit into folly's hands. Well, wife, you know it is no honest part To entertain such guests with jests and wrongs: What will the neighbouring country vulgar say, When as they hear that you fell out at dinner? Forsooth, they'll call it a pot-quarrel straight; The best they'll name it is a woman's jangling. Go to, be rul'd, be rul'd.