_Cla._ If this way, I shall never hold. _Sil._ I'll watch ye: And if I catch ye false: by heaven ye dye for't, All love forgot. _Cla._ When I fear that, I am fit for't. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Secunda._ _Enter_ Lopez _at a Table with Jewels and Money upon_ _it, an Egg roasting by a Candle_. _Lop._ Whilst prodigal young gaudy fools are banqueting, And launching out their states to catch the giddy, Thus do I study to preserve my fortune, And hatch with care at home the wealth that Saints me. Here's Rubies of _Bengala,_ rich, rich, glorious; These Diamonds of _Ormus_ bought for little, Here vented at the price of Princes Ransomes; How bright they shine like constellations, The South Seas treasure here, Pearl, fair and orient Able to equal _Cleopatra's_ Banquet: Here chains of lesser stones for Ladies lusters, Ingotts of Gold, Rings, Brooches, bars of Silver, These are my studies to set off in sale well, And not in sensual surfeits to consume 'em; How rosts mine egg; he heats apace, I'll turn him: _Penurio_, where you knave do you wait? _Penurio_, You lazie knave. _Pen._ Did you call Sir? _Lop._ Where's your Mistriss? What vanity holds her from her attendance? _Pen._ The very sight of this egg has made him cockish, What would a dozen butter'd do? She is within Sir. _Lop._ Within Sir, at what thrif[t] ye knave? what getting? _Pen._ Getting a good stomach Sir, and she knew where to get meat to it, She is praying heartily upon her knees Sir, That Heaven would send her a good bearing dinner. _Lop._ Nothing but gluttony and surfeit thought on, Health flung behind: had she not yesternight sirrah Two Sprats to supper, and the oil allowable? Was she not sick with eating? Hadst not thou, (Thou most ungrateful knave, that nothing satisfies) The water that I boil'd my other egg in To make thee hearty broth? _Pen._ 'Tis true, I had Sir; But I might as soon make the Philosophers Stone on't, You gave it me in water, and but for manners sake, I could give it you again, in wind, it was so hearty I shall turn pissing-Conduit shortly: my Mistriss comes, Sir. _Enter_ Isabella. _Lop._ Welcome my Dove. _Isab._ Pray ye keep your welcome to ye, Unless it carries more than words to please me, Is this the joy to be a Wife? to bring with me, Besides the nobleness of blood I spring from, A full and able portion to maintain me? Is this the happiness of youth and beauty, The great content of being made a Mistriss, To live a Slave subject to wants and hungers, To jealousies for every eye that wanders? Unmanly jealousie. _Lop._ Good _Isabella_.