PHIL. Lo, Frank, dost thou not see he's drunk, That twits thee[239] with thy disposition? FRAN. What disposition? PHIL. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson. FRAN. Nay, then-- PHIL. Go to, ye wag, 'tis well: If ever ye get a wife, i'faith I'll tell. Sirrah, at home we have a servingman; He is[240] not humour'd bluntly as Coomes is, Yet his condition[241] makes me often merry: I'll tell thee, sirrah, he's a fine neat fellow, A spruce slave; I warrant ye, he will[242] have His cruel garters[243] cross about the knee, His woollen hose as white as th'driven snow, His shoes dry-leather neat, and tied with red ribbons, A nosegay bound with laces in his hat-- Bridelaces, sir--and his hat all green[244], Green coverlet for such a grass-green wit. "The goose that grazeth on the green," quoth he, "May I eat on, when you shall buried be!" All proverbs is his speech, he's proverbs all. FRAN. Why speaks he proverbs? PHIL. Because he would speak truth, And proverbs, you'll confess, are old-said sooth. FRAN. I like this well, and one day I will see him: But shall we part? PHIL. Not yet, I'll bring ye somewhat on your way, And as we go, between your boy and you I'll know where that brave prancer stands at livery. FRAN. Come, come, you shall not. PHIL. I'faith, I will. [_Exeunt_. _Enter_ MASTER BARNES _and his Wife_. MR BAR. Wife, in my mind to-day you were to blame, Although my patience did not blame ye for it: Methought the rules of love and neighbourhood Did not direct your thoughts; all indiscreet[245] Were your proceedings in the entertain Of them that I invited to my house. Nay, stay, I do not chide, but counsel, wife, And in the mildest manner that I may: You need not view me with a servant's eye, Whose vassal[246] senses tremble at the look Of his displeased master. O my wife, You are myself! when self sees fault in self, Self is sin-obstinate, if self amend not: Indeed, I saw a fault in thee myself, And it hath set a foil upon thy fame, Not as the foil doth grace the diamond. MRS BAR. What fault, sir, did you see in me to-day? MR BAR. O, do not set the organ of thy voice On such a grunting key of discontent! Do not deform the beauty of thy tongue With such misshapen answers. Rough wrathful words Are bastards got by rashness in the thoughts: Fair demeanours are virtue's nuptial babes, The offspring of the well-instructed soul; O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife! So seem not barren of good courtesy. MRS BAR. So; have ye done? MR BAR. Ay, and I had done well, If you would do what I advise for well. MRS BAR. What's that? MR BAR. Which is, that you would be good friends With Mistress Goursey. MRS BAR. With Mistress Goursey! MR BAR. Ay, sweet wife. MRS BAR. Not so, sweet husband. MR BAR. Could you but show me any grounded cause. MRS BAR. The grounded cause I ground, because I will not. MR BAR. Your will hath little reason, then, I think. MRS BAR. Yes, sir, my reason equalleth my will.