CLOWN. Nay, at the second hand you'll have a fee too; you sell in the church; and[56] they bring 'em again to your churchyard, you must have tollage: methinks, if a man die whether you will or no, he should be buried whether you would or no. DOC. Nay, now you wade too far, sir. WID. You'll begone, sirrah! CLOWN. Mistress, make him your friend; for he knows what rate good husbands are at; if there hath been a dearth of women of late, you may chance pick out a good prize; but take heed of a clerk. WID. Will you yet, sir, after your needless trouble? Begone, and bid the maids dress dinner! CLOWN. Mistress, 'tis fasting day to-day, there's nothing But fish. WID. Let there be store of that; let bounty Furnish the table, and charity Shall be the voider. What fish is there, sirrah? CLOWN. Marry, there is salmon, pike, and fresh cod, soles, maids,[57] and plaice. WID. Bid 'em haste to dress 'em then. CLOWN. Nay, mistress, I'll help 'em too; the maids shall first dress the pike and the cod, and then [_Aside_] I'll dress the maids in the place you wot on. [_Exit_ CLOWN. DOC. You sent for me, gentlewoman? WID. Sir, I did: and to this end: I have some scruples in my conscience; Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain. DOC. This is my duty; pray [you], speak your mind. WID. And as I speak, I must remember heaven, That gave those blessings which I must relate: Sir, you now behold a wond'rous woman; You only wonder at the epithet; I can approve it good: guess at mine age. DOC. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty. WID. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the last. How think you then, is not this a wonder? That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow, Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while From the extremest verge of my remembrance, Even from my weaning-hour unto this minute, Did never taste what was calamity? I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought An hundred ways for its acquaintance: with me Prosperity hath kept so close a watch, That even those things that I have meant a cross, Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange? DOC. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular, And to you alone belonging: you are the moon, For there's but one: all women else are stars, For there are none of like condition. Full oft and many have I heard complain Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities, But a second to yourself I never knew: To groan under the superflux of blessings, To have ever been alien unto sorrow, No trip of fate? Sure, it is wonderful.