WIFE. Fie, servant! you show small civility And less humanity: d'ye requite My husband's love thus ill? for what d'ye think Of me, that you will utter to my face Such harsh, unfriendly, slanderous injuries Even of my husband? Sir, forbear, I pray, My ears or your own tongue: I am no house-wife To hear my husband's merit thus deprav'd. SUB. His merit is a halter, by this light. You think he's out of town now; no such matter: But gone aside, and hath importun'd me To try your chastity. WIFE. It cannot be. Alas! he is as free from jealousy, And ever was, as confidence itself. I know he loves me too-too heartily To be suspicious, or to prove my truth. SUB. If I do feign in ought, ne'er may I purchase The grace I hope for! and, fair mistress, If you have any spirit, or wit, or sense, You will be even with such a wretched slave. Heaven knows I love you as the air I draw! Think but how finely you may cuckold him, And safely, too, with me, who will report To him, that you are most invincible, Your chastity not to be subdu'd by man. WIFE. When you know I'm a whore? SUB. A whore? fie! no; That you have been kind, or so: your whore doth live In Pickt-hatch,[92] Turnbull Street. WIFE. Your whore lives there! [_Aside._] Well, servant, leave me to myself awhile: Return anon; but bear this hope away, 'T shall be with you, if I at all do stray. [_Exit_ SUBTLE. Why, here's right wordly[93] friendship! ye're well-met. O men! what are you? why is our poor sex Still made the disgrac'd subjects in these plays For vices, folly, and inconstancy: When, were men look'd into with such critical eyes Of observation, many would be found So full of gross and base corruption, That none (unless the devil himself turn'd writer) Could feign so badly to express them truly? Some wives that had a husband now, like mine, Would yield their honours up to any man: Far be it from my thoughts! O, let me stand, Thou God of marriage and chastity, An honour to my sex! no injury Compel the virtue of my breast to yield! It's not revenge for any wife to stain The nuptial bed, although she be yok'd ill. Who falls, because her husband so hath done, Cures not his wound, but in herself makes one. [_Exit_ WIFE. SCENE III. _Enter_ INGEN, _reading a letter; sits down in a chair, and stamps with his foot; to him a_ SERVANT. INGEN. Who brought this letter? SER. A little Irish footboy, sir: He stays without for an answer. INGEN. Bid him come in. Lord! What deep dissemblers are these females all. How far unlike a friend this lady us'd me, And here how like one mad in love she writes. _Enter_ MAID, _like an Irish footboy, with a dart,[94] gloves in her pocket, and a handkerchief_.