_By._ Stay yet, Swear as you hate _Moroso_, that's the surest, And as you have a certain fear to find him Worse than a poor dry'd _Jack_, full of more aches Than _Autumn_ has; more knavery, and usury, And foolery, and brokery, than dogs-ditch: As you do constantly believe he's nothing But an old empty bag with a grey beard, And that Beard such a bob-tail, that it looks Worse than a Mares tail eaten off with Fillies: As you acknowledge that young handsome wench That lies by such a _Bilboa_ blade that bends With ev'ry pass he makes, to th' hilts, [most] miserable, A dry Nurse to his Coughs, a fewterer To such a nasty fellow, a robb'd thing Of all delights youth looks for: and to end, One cast away on course beef, born to brush That everlasting Cassock that has worn As many servants out, as the Northeast passage Has consum'd Sailors: if you swear this, and truly Without the reservation of a gown Or any meritorious Petticoat, 'Tis like we shall believe you. _Liv._ I do swear it. _Mar._ Stay yet a little; came this wholsome motion (Deal truly Sister) from your own opinion, Or some suggestion of the Foe? _Liv._ Nev'r fear me, For by that little faith I have in Husbands, And the great zeal I bear your cause, I come Full of that liberty you stand for, Sister. _Mar._ If we believe, and you prove recreant, _Livia_, Think what a maim you give the noble Cause We now stand up for: Think what women shall, An hundred years hence, speak thee, when examples Are look'd for, and so great ones, whose relations, Spoke as we do 'em wench, shall make new customs. _By._ If you be false, repent, go home, and pray, And to the serious women of the City Confess your self; bring not a sin so hainous To load thy soul to this place: mark me _Livia_, If thou be'st double, and betray'st our honors, And we fail in our purpose: get thee where There is no women living, nor no hope There ever shall be. _Mar._ If a Mothers daughter, That ever heard the name of stubborn husband Find thee, and know thy sin. _By._ Nay, if old age, One that has worn away the name of woman, And no more left to know her by, but railing, No teeth, nor eyes, nor legs, but wooden ones Come but i'th' wind-ward of thee, for sure she'll smell thee; Thou'lt be so rank, she'll ride thee like a night-Mare, And say her Prayers back-ward to undo thee: She'll curse thy meat and drink, and when thou marriest, Clap a sound spell for ever on thy pleasures.