W. RASH. Look to yourself, sir; The brazen head has spoke,[205] and I must leave you. JOYCE. Has shame that power in him, to make him fly, And dare you be so impudent to stand Just in the face of my incensed anger? What are you? why do you stay? who sent for you? You were in garments yesterday, befitting A fellow of your fashion: has a crown Purchased that shining satin of the brokers? Or is't a cast suit of your goodly master's? STAINES. A cast suit, lady? JOYCE. You think it does become you? Faith, it does not. A blue coat[206] with a badge does better with you. Go, untruss your master's points, and do not dare To stop your nose when as his worship stinks: 'T has been your breeding. STAINES. Ud's life! this is excellent: now she talks. [_Aside._ JOYCE. Nay, were you a gentleman, and (which is more) Well-landed, I should hardly love you; For, for your face, I never saw a worse: It looks as if 'twere drawn with yellow ochre Upon black buckram; and that hair That's on your chin looks not like beard, But as if't had been smear'd with shoemakers' wax. STAINES. Ud's foot! she'll make me out of love with myself. [_Aside._ JOYCE. How dares your baseness once aspire unto So high a fortune, as to reach at me? Because you have heard that some have run away With butlers, horsekeepers, and their father's clerks, You, forsooth, cocker'd with your own suggestion, Take heart upon't, and think me (that am meet, And set up for your master) fit for you. STAINES. I would I could get her now to hold her tongue. [_Aside_ JOYCE. Or, 'cause sometimes as I have pass'd along, And have return'd a courtesy for your hat, You, as the common trick is, straight suppose 'Tis love (sir reverence, which makes the word more beastly). STAINES. Why, this is worse than silence. [_Aside._ JOYCE. But we are fools, and in our reputations We find the smart on't: Kindness is termed lightness in our sex; And when we give a favour or a kiss, We give our good names too. STAINES. Will you be dumb again? JOYCE. Men you are call'd, but you're a viperous brood, Whom we in charity take into our bosoms, And cherish with our heart; for which you sting us. STAINES. Ud's foot! I'll fetch him that wak'd your tongue, To lay it down again. [_Fetches_ WILL RASH. W. RASH. Why, how now, man? STAINES. O, relieve me, or I shall lose my hearing! You have rais'd a fury up into her tongue: A parliament of women could not make Such a confused noise as that she utters. W. RASH. Well, what would you have me do? STAINES. Why, make her hold her tongue. W. RASH. And what then? STAINES. Why, then, let me alone again.