_Isab._ Has paid thee, But I'll heal all again with good Gold. _Jaquenet_; H'as damned nails. _Jaq._ They are ten-penny nails I think Mistriss: I'll undertake he shall strike 'em through an inch board. _Isab._ Go up, and wash thy self: take my _Pomatum_, And now let me alone to end the Tragedy. _Jaq._ You had best beware. _Isab._ I shall deal stoutly with him, Reach me my Book, a[n]d see the door made fast wench, And so good night: now to the matter politick. [Lopez _knocks within_. _Lop. Within._ You shall see what she is, what a sweet jewel. _Isab._ Who's there, what mad-man knocks? is this an hour And in mine Husband's absence? _Lop. Within._ Will ye open? You know my voice ye whore, I am that Husband: Do you mark her subtilty? but I have paid her, I have so ferk'd her face: here's the blood Gentlemen, _Ecce signum_: I have spoil'd her Goatish beauty, Observe her how she looks now, how she is painted, Oh 'tis the most wicked'st whore, and the most treacherous-- _Enter_ Lopez, Bartello, _Gent. and two Gentlewomen_. _Gent._ Here walks my cosin full of meditation, Arm'd with religious thoughts. _Bar._ Is this the monster? _1 Gentlew._ Is this the subject of that rage you talk'd of, That naughty woman you had pull'd a-pieces? _Bar._ Here's no such thing. _1 Gentlew._ How have ye wrong'd this beauty? Are not you mad my friend? what time o' th' moon is 't? Have not you Maggots in your brains? _Lop._ 'Tis she sure. _Gent._ Where's the scratch'd face ye spoke of, the torn garments, And all the hair pluck'd off her head? _Bar._ Believe me, 'Twere better far you had lost your pair of pibbles, Than she the least adornment of that sweetness. _Lop._ Is not this blood? _1 Gentlew._ This is a monstrous folly, A base abuse. _Isab._ Thus he does ever use me, And sticks me up a wonder, not a woman, Nothing I doe, but's subject to suspition; Nothing I can do, able to content him. _Bar. Lopez_, you must not use this. _2 Gentlew._ 'Twere not amiss, Sir, To give ye sauce to your meat, and suddainly. _1 Gentlew._ You that dare wrong a woman of her goodness, Thou have a Wife, thou have a Bear ty'd to thee, To scratch thy jealous itch, were all o' my mind, I mean all women, we would [soone] disburthen ye Of that that breeds these fits, these dog-flaws in ye, A Sow-guelder should trim ye. _Bar._ A rare cure Lady, And one as fit for him as a Thief for a halter, You see this youth: will you not cry him quittance, Body 'me, I would pine, but I would pepper him, I'll come anon, he, hang him, poor pompillion: How like a wench bepist he looks, I'll come Lady; _Lopez_, The Law must teach ye what a wife is, A good, a virtuous wife.