Y. ART. Mary, what cause hast thou to use me thus? From nothing I have rais'd thee to much wealth; 'Twas more than I did owe thee: many a pound, Nay, many a hundred pound, I spent on thee In my wife's time; and once, but by my means, Thou hadst been in much danger: but in all things My purse and credit ever bare thee out. I did not owe thee this. I had a wife, That would have laid herself beneath my feet To do me service; her I set at nought For the entire affection I bare thee. To show that I have lov'd thee, have I not, Above all women, made chief choice of thee? An argument sufficient of my love! What reason then hast thou to wrong me thus? MRS MA. It is my humour. Y. ART. O, but such humours honest wives should purge: I'll show thee a far greater instance yet Of the true love that I have borne to thee. Thou knew'st my wife: was she not fair? MRS MA. So, so. Y. ART. But more than fair: was she not virtuous? Endued with the beauty of the mind? MRS MA. Faith, so they said. Y. ART. Hark, in thine ear: I'll trust thee with my life, Than which what greater instance of my love: Thou knew'st full well how suddenly she died? T'enjoy thy love, even then I poison'd her! MRS MA. How! poison'd her? accursed murderer! I'll ring this fatal 'larum in all ears, Than which what greater instance of my hate? Y. ART. Wilt thou not keep my counsel? MRS MA. Villain, no! Thou'lt poison me, as thou hast poison'd her. Y. ART. Dost thou reward me thus for all my love? Then, Arthur, fly, and seek to save thy life! O, difference 'twixt a chaste and unchaste wife! [_Exit_. MRS MA. Pursue the murd'rer, apprehend him straight. BRA. Why, what's the matter, mistress? MRS MA. This villain Arthur poison'd his first wife, Which he in secret hath confess'd to me; Go and fetch warrants from the justices T'attach the murd'rer; he once hang'd and dead, His wealth is mine: pursue the slave that's fled. BRA. Mistress, I will; he shall not pass this land, But I will bring him bound with this strong hand. [_Exeunt_. SCENE II. _The Street before the House of Anselm's Mother_. _Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR, _poorly_. MRS ART. O, what are the vain pleasures of the world, That in their actions we affect them so? Had I been born a servant, my low life Had steady stood from all these miseries. The waving reeds stand free from every gust, When the tall oaks are rent up by the roots. What is vain beauty but an idle breath? Why are we proud of that which so soon changes? But rather wish the beauty of the mind, Which neither time can alter, sickness change, Violence deface, nor the black hand of envy Smudge and disgrace, or spoil, or make deform'd. O, had my riotous husband borne this mind, He had been happy, I had been more blest, And peace had brought our quiet souls to rest. _Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.