THROAT. That land he has lies in a fair churchyard; And for his manners, they are so rude and vile, That scarce an honest man will keep him company. FRAN. I am abus'd, cosen'd, and deceived. THROAT. Why, that's his occupation: he will cheat In a cloak lin'd with velvet: he will prate Faster than five barbers and a tailor; Lie faster than ten city occupiers[368] Or cunning tradesmen: goes a-trust In every tavern, where h' has spent a fagot; Swears love to every whore, squires bawds, And takes up houses for them as their husband: He is a man I love, and have done much To bring him to preferment. FRAN. Is there no trust, no honesty in men? THROAT. Faith, some there is, And 'tis all in the hands of us lawyers And women: and those women which have it, Keep their honesty so close, that not one Amongst a hundred is perceiv'd to have it. FRAN. Good sir, may I not by law forsake him, And wed another, though my word be pass'd To be his wife? THROAT. O, questionless, you may! You have many precedents and bookcases for't: Nay, though you were married by a bookcase Of _Millesimo sexcentessimo_, &c. You may forsake your husband, and wed another, Provided that some fault be in the husband, As none of them are clear. FRAN. I am resolv'd. I will not wed him, though I beg my bread. THROAT. All that I have is yours; and were I worthy To be your husband------ FRAN. I thank you, sir; I will rather wed a most perfidious Red-shanks A noted Jew, or some mechanic slave, Than let him joy my sheets. THROAT. He comes, he comes. _Enter_ W. SMALL-SHANKS, BOUTCHER, T. SMALL-SHANKS, BEARD. W. SMALL. Now, my virago, 'tis done: all's cock-sure. I have a priest will mumble up a marriage Without bell, book, or candle:[369] a nimble slave, An honest Welshman, that was a tailor, But now is made a curate. BEARD. Nay, y' are fitted. BOUT. Now, Master Throat. T. SMALL. Where's your spirit, sister? W. SMALL. What, all amort?[370] what's the matter? do you hear? BOUT. What's the reason of this melancholy? THROAT. By heaven, I know not? W. SMALL. Has the gudgeon bit? [_Aside._ FRAN. He has been nibbling. [_Aside._ W. SMALL. Hold him to it, wench, And it will hit, by heaven. [_Aside._] Why art so sad? 'Foot, wench, we will be married to-night, We'll sup at th' Mitre, and from thence My brother and we three will to the Savoy; Which done, I tell thee, girl, we'll, hand o'er head, Go to it pell-mell for a maidenhead. Come, you are lusty: you wenches are like bells, You give no music till you feel the clapper. Come, Throat: a torch. We must be gone. [_Exit._ FRAN. Servant. BEARD. Mistress.