Y. ART. Ha, ha! a miracle, a prodigy! To see a woman weep is as much pity As to see foxes digg'd out of their holes. If thou wilt pleasure me, let me see thee less; Grieve much; they say grief often shortens life: Come not too near me, till I call thee, wife; And that will be but seldom. I will tell thee, How thou shalt win my heart--die suddenly, And I'll become a lusty widower: The longer thy life lasts, the more my hate And loathing still increaseth towards thee. When I come home and find thee cold as earth, Then will I love thee: thus thou know'st my mind. Come, Master Lusam, let us in to dine. Y. LUS. O, sir, you too much affect this evil; Poor saint! why wert thou yok'd thus with a devil? [_Aside_. [_Exeunt_ Y. ART. _and_ Y. LUS. MRS ART. If thou wilt win my heart, die suddenly! But that my soul was bought at such a rate, At such a high price as my Saviour's blood, I would not stick to lose it with a stab; But, virtue, banish all such fantasies. He is my husband, and I love him well; Next to my own soul's health I tender him, And would give all the pleasures of the world To buy his love, if I might purchase it. I'll follow him, and like a servant wait, And strive by all means to prevent his hate. [_Exit_. _Enter_ OLD MASTER ARTHUR _and_ OLD MASTER LUSAM. O. ART. This is my son's house; were it best go in? How say you, Master Lusam? O. LUS. How? Go in? How say you, sir? O. ART. I say 'tis best. O. LUS. Ay, sir, say you so? so say I too. O. ART. Nay, nay, it is not best; I'll tell you why. Haply the fire of hate is quite extinct From the dead embers; now to rake them up, Should the least spark of discontent appear, To make the flame of hatred burn afresh, The heat of this dissension might scorch us; Which, in his own cold ashes smother'd up, May die in silence, and revive no more: And therefore tell me, is it best or no? O. LUS. How say you, sir? O. ART. I say it is not best. O. LUS. Mass, you say well, sir, and so say I too. O. ART. But shall we lose our labour to come hither, And, without sight of our two children, Go back again? nay, we will in, that's sure. O. LUS. In, quotha! do you make a doubt of that; Shall we come thus far, and in such post-haste, And have our children here, and both within, And not behold them e'er our back-return? It were unfriendly and unfatherly. Come, Master Arthur, pray you follow me. O. ART. Nay, but hark you, sir, will you not knock? O. LUS. Is't best to knock? O. ART. Ay, knock in any case. O. LUS. 'Twas well you put it in my mind to knock, I had forgotten it else, I promise you. O. ART. Tush, is't not my son's and your daughter's door, And shall we two stand knocking? Lead the way. O. LUS. Knock at our children's doors! that were a jest. Are we such fools to make ourselves so strange, Where we should still be boldest? In, for shame! We will not stand upon such ceremonies.