_Fred._ She her self Shall bate so much of her own modesty To swear it to him, with such tears as now You see rain from her. _Fab._ I believe 'twould work, But would you have her do't i'th' open street? Or if you would, he'll run away from her, How shall we get him hither? _Fred._ By entreaty. _Fab._ 'Tis most impossible, no, if we could Anger him hither, as there is no way But that to bring him, and then hold him fast, Women, and men, whilst she delivers to him the truth Seal'd with her tears, he would be plain As a pleas'd Child; he walks below for me Under the window. _Clor._ We'll anger him I warrant ye, Let one of the maids take a good Bowl of water, Or say it be a piss-pot, and pour't on's head. _Fab._ Content, hang me if I like not the cast of it rarely, for no question It is an approv'd Receipt to fetch such a fellow; Take all the women-kind in this house, betwixt the Age of one, And one hundred, and let them take unto them a pot or a Bowl containing seven quarts or upwards, and let them Never leave, till the above named Pot or Bowl become full, then let one of them stretch out Her Arm, and pour it on his head, and _probatum est,_ it Will fetch him, for in his anger he will run up, and then let Us alone. _Clor._ Go you and do it. [_Exit Maid._ _Fran._ Good _Clora_, no. _Clor._ Away I say, & do it, never fear, we have enough of that Water ready distill'd. _Fran._ Why, this will make him mad, _Fabricio_, He'll neither love me drunk nor sober now. _Fab._ I warrant you; what, is the wench come up? _Enter Wench._ _Clor._ Art thou there, wench? _Wench._ I. _Fab._ Look out then if thou canst see him. _Wench._ Yes, I see him, and by my troth he stands so fair I could not Hold were he my Father, his hat's off too, and he's scratching His head. _Fab._ O, wash that hand I prithee. _Wench._ 'Send thee good luck, this the second time I have thrown thee Out to day, ha, ha, ha, just on's head. _Fran._ Alas! _Fab._ What does he now? _Wench._ He gathers stones, God's light, he breaks all the Street windows. _Jac._ Whores, Bawds, your windows, your windows. _Wench._ Now he is breaking all the low windows with His Sword, Excellent sport, now he's beating a fellow that laugh'd at him, Truly the man takes it patiently; now he goes down the street Gravely, looking on each side, there's not one more dare laugh. _Fran._ Does he go on? _Wench._ Yes.