_Bar._ Nay, I have strength, and I can strain ye sirrah, And vault into my seat as nimbly, little one. As any of you[r] smooth-chinn'd boys in _Florence_, I must needs commit a little folly with ye, I'll not be long, a brideling cast, and away wench; The hob-nail thy husband's as fitly out o'th' way now? _Isab._ Do you think he keeps a bawdy-house? _Bar._ That's all one. _Isab._ Or did you ever see that lightness in my carriage, That you might promise to your self--. _Bar._ Away fool, A good turn's a good turn; I am an honest fellow: _Isab._ You have a handsome wife, a virtuous Gentlewoman. _Bar._ They are not for this time o'th' year. _Isab._ A Lady, That ever bore that great respect to you, That noble constancy. _Bar._ That's more than I know. _Enter Maid, and_ Penurio. _Maid._ Oh Mistriss, ye are undone, my Master's coming. _Pen._ Coming hard by here. _Bar._ Plague consume the Rascal, Shall I make petty-patties of him? _Isab._ Now what love Sir? Fear of your coming made him jealous first; Your finding here, will make him mad and desperate, And what in that wild mood he will execute-- _Bar._ I can think of nothing, I have no wit left me, Certain my head's a Mustard-pot. _Isab._ I have thought Sir, And if you'll please to put in execution What I conceive-- _Bar._ I'll do it, tell it quickly. _Isab._ Draw your sword quickly, and go down inrag'd, As if you had persu'd some foe up hither, And grumble to your self extreamly, terribly, But not a word to him, and so pass by him. _Bar._ I'll do it perfectly. _Enter_ Lopez. _Isa[b]._ Stand you still good Sir. _Bar._ Rascal, slave, villain, take a house so poorly, After thou hast wrong'd a Gentleman, a Soldier, Base Poultroon boy, you will forsake your neast sirrah. _Lop._ The matter, good sweet Captain? _Bart._ Run-away rogue, And take a house to cover thy base cowardize, I'll whip ye, I'll so scourge ye. [_Exit._ _Lop._ Mercy upon me, What's all this matter wife? _Isab._ Did you meet the mad man? _Lop._ I never saw the Captain so provok'd yet. _Isab._ Oh he's a Devil sure, a most bloody devil, He follow'd a young Gentleman, his sword drawn, With such a fury, how I shake to think on't, And foyn'd, and slash'd at him, and swore he'd kill him, Drove him up hither, follow'd him still bloodily, And if I had not hid him, sure had slain him; A merciless old man. _[C]la._ Most virtuous Lady, Even as the giver of my life, I thank ye.