_Soph._ Amen, say I too: The pudding's now i'th' proof, alas poor wench. Through what a mine of patience must thou work, E'r thou know'st good hour more! _Tra._ 'Tis too true: Certain, Methinks her father has dealt harshly with her, Exceeding harshly, and not like a Father, To match her to this Dragon; I protest I pity the poor Gentlewoman. _Mor._ Methinks now, He's not so terrible as people think him. _Soph._ This old thief flatters, out of meer devotion, To please the Father for his second daughter. _Tra._ But shall he have her? _Soph._ Yes, when I have _Rome_. And yet the father's for him. _Mor._ I'll assure ye, I hold him a good man. _Soph._ Yes sure a wealthy, But whether a good womans man, is doubtful. _Tra._ Would 'twere no worse. _M[o]r._ What though his other wife, Out of her most abundant soberness, Out of her daily hue and cries upon him, (For sure she was a rebel) turn'd his temper, And forc'd him blow as high as she? dos't follow He must retain that long since buried Tempest, To this soft Maid? _Soph._ I fear it. _Tra._ So do I too: And so far, that if God had made me woman, And his wife that must be-- _Mor._ What would you do, Sir? _Tra._ I would learn to eat coals with an angry Cat, And spit fire at him: I would (to prevent him) Do all the ramping, roaring tricks, a whore Being drunk, and tumbling ripe, would tremble at: There is no safety else, nor moral wisdom. To be a wife, and his. _Soph._ So I should think too. _Tra._ For yet the bare remembrance of his first wife (I tell ye on my knowledge, and a truth too) Will make him start in's sleep, and very often Cry out for Cudgels, Colestaves, any thing; Hiding his breeches, out of fear her Ghost Should walk, and wear 'em yet. Since his first marriage, He is no more the still _Petruchio_, Than I am _Babylon_. _Soph._ He's a good fellow, And on my word I love him: but to think A fit match for this tender soul-- _Tra._ His very frown, if she but say her prayers Louder than men talk treason, makes him tinder; The motion of a Dial, when he's testy, Is the same trouble to him as a Water-work; She must do nothing of her self; not eat, Drink, say Sir, how do ye? make her ready, unready, Unless he bid her. _Soph._ He will bury her, Ten pound to twenty shillings, within these three weeks. _Tra._ I'll be your half. _Enter_ Jaques _with a pot of Wine._ _Mor._ He loves her most extreamly, And so long 'twill be Honey-moon. Now _Jaques_. You are a busie man I am sure. _Jaq._ Yes certain, This old sport must have eggs. _Sop._ Not yet this ten daies. _Jaq._ Sweet Gentlemen with Muskadel. _Tra._ That's right, Sir. _Mor._ This fellow broods his Master: speed ye _Jaques_. _Soph._ We shall be for you presently.