_Mar._ And I'll quarter if I do not, I'll make you know, and fear a wife _Petruchio_, There my cause lies. You have been famous for a woman-tamer, And bear the fear'd-name of a brave Wife-breaker: A woman now shall take those honors off, And tame you; nay, never look so bigg, she shall, believe me, And I am she: what think ye; good night to all, Ye shall find Centinels. _By._ If ye dare sally. [_Exeunt above._ _Petro._ The devil's in 'em, ev'n the very devil, the downright devil. _Petru._ I'll devil 'em: by these ten bones I will: I'll bring it to the old Proverb, no sport no pie:----taken down i'th' top of all my speed; this is fine dancing: Gentlemen, stick to me. You see our Freehold's touch'd, and by this light, we will beleagure 'em, and either starve 'em out, or make 'em recreant. _Petro._ I'll see all passages stopt, but those about 'em: If the good women of the Town dare succor 'em, We shall have wars indeed. _Soph._ I'll stand perdue upon 'em. _Mor._ My Regiment shall lie before. _Jaq._ I think so, 'tis grown too old to stand. _Petru._ Let's in, and each provide his tackle, We'll fire 'em out, or make 'em take their pardons: Hear what I say on their bare knees-- Am I _Petruchio_, fear'd, and spoken of, And on my wedding night am I thus jaded? [_Exeunt omn._ _Scaena Quarta._ _Enter_ Rowland _and_ Pedro _at several doors._ _Row._ Now _Pedro_? _Ped._ Very busie Master _Rowland_. _Row._ What haste man? _Ped._ I beseech you pardon me, I am not mine own man. _Row._ Thou art not mad? _Ped._ No; but believe me, as hasty-- _Row._ The cause good _Pedro_? _Ped._ There be a thousand Sir; you are not married? _Row._ Not yet. _Ped._ Keep your self quiet then. _Row._ Why? _Ped._ You'll find a Fiddle That never will be tun'd else: from all women-- [_Exit._ _Row._ What ails the fellow tro? _Jaques_? _Enter_ Jaques. _Jaq._ Your friend Sir. But very full of business. _Row._ Nothing but business? Prethee the reason, is there any dying? _Jaq._ I would there were Sir. _Row._ But thy business? _Jaq._ I'll tell you in a word, I am sent to lay An Imposition upon Souse and Puddings, Pasties, and penny Custards, that the women May not relieve yo[n] Rebels: Fare ye well, Sir. _Row._ How does my Mistriss? _Jaq._ Like a resty jade. She's spoil'd for riding. [_Exit_ Jaques. _Row._ What a devil ail they? _Enter_ Sophocles. Custards, and penny Pasties, Fools and Fiddles, What's this to th' purpose? Oh well met. _Soph._ Now _Rowland_. I cannot stay to talk long. _Row._ What's the matter? Here's stirring, but to what end? whither goe you? _Soph._ To view the Works. _Row._ What Works? _Soph._ The womens Trenches. _Row._ Trenches? are such to see? _Soph._ I do not jest, Sir.