_Isab._ Too good for you: do you think to famish me, Or keep me like an Alms-woman in such rayment, Such poor unhandsome weeds? am I old, or ugly? I never was bred thus: and if your misery Will suffer wilful blindness to abuse me, My patience shall be no Bawd to mine own ruine. _Pen._ Tickle him Mistris: to him. _Isab._ Had ye love in ye, Or any part of man-- _Pen._ Follow that Mistriss. _Isab._ Or had humanity but ever known ye, You would shame to use a woman of my way thus, So poor, and basely; you are strangely jealous of me If I should give ye cause. _Lop._ How _Isabella_? _Isab._ As do not venture this way to provoke me. _Pen._ Excellent well Mistriss. _Lop._ How's this _Isabella_? _Isab._ 'Twill stir a Saint, and I am but a woman, And by that tenure may-- _Lop._ By no means chicken, You know I love ye: fie, take no example By those young gadding Dames: (you are noted virtuous) That stick their Husbands wealth in trifles on 'em And point 'em but the way to their own miseries: I am not jealous, kiss me, ---- I am not: And for your Diet, 'tis to keep you healthful, Surfeits destroy more than the sword: that I am careful Your meat should be both neat, and cleanly handled See, Sweet, I am Cook my self, and mine own Cater. _Pen._ A ---- of that Cook cannot lick his fingers. _Lop._ I'll add another dish: you shall have Milk to it, 'Tis nourishing and good. _Pen._ With Butter in't Sir? _Lop._ This knave would breed a famine in a Kingdom: And cloths that shall content ye: you must be wise then, And live sequestred to your self and me, Not wandring after every toy comes cross ye, Nor struck with every spleen: what's the knave doing? _Penurio._ _Pen._ Hunting Sir, for a second course of Flies here, They are rare new Sallads. _Lop._ For certain _Isabella_ This ravening fellow has a Wolf in's [belly]: Untemperate knave, will nothing quench thy appetite? I saw him eat two Apples, which is monstrous. _Pen._ If you had given me those 't had been more monstrous. _Lop._ 'Tis a main miracle to feed this villain, Come _Isabella_, let us in to supper, And think the _Roman_ dainties at our Table, 'Tis all but thought. [_Exeunt._ _Pen._ Would all my thoughts would do it: The Devil should think of purchasing that Egg-shell, To victual out a Witch for the _Burmoothes_: 'Tis Treason to any good stomach living now To hear a tedious Grace said, and no meat to't, I have a Radish yet, but that's but transitory. [_Exit._ _Scæna Tertia._ _Enter_ Soto.