_Mar._ I do too much, sweet _Sophocles_, he's one Of a most spightful self condition, Never at peace with any thing but Age, That has no teeth left to return his anger: A Bravery dwells in his blood yet, of abusing His first good wife; he's sooner fire than powder, And sooner mischief. _Petru._ If I be so sodain Do not you fear me? _Mar._ No nor yet care for you, And if it may be lawful, I defie you: _Petru._ Do's this become you now? _Mar._ It shall become me. _Petru._ Thou disobedient, weak, vain-glorious woman, Were I but half so wilful, as thou spightful, I should now drag thee to thy duty. _Mar._ Drag me? _Petru._ But I am friends again: take all your pleasure. _Mar._ Now you perceive him _Sophocles_. _Petru._ I love thee Above thy vanity, thou faithless creature. _Mar._ Would I had been so happy when I Married, But to have met an honest Man like thee, For I am sure thou art good, I know thou art honest, A hansome hurtless man, a loving man, Though never a penny with him; and those eyes, That face, and that true heart; weare this for my sake, And when thou think'st upon me pity me: I am cast away. [_Exit_ Mar. _Soph._ Why how now man? _Petru._ Pray leave me, And follow your advices. _Soph._ The Man's jealous: _Petru._ I shall find a time ere it be long, to ask you One or two foolish questions. _Soph._ I shall answer As well as I am able, when you call me: If she mean true, 'tis but a little killing, And if I do not venture it's-- Farewel sir. [_Exit_ Soph. _Petru._ Pray farewel. Is there no keeping A Wife to one mans use? no wintering These cattel without straying? 'Tis hard dealing, Very hard dealing, Gentlemen, strange dealing: Now in the name of madness, what Star raign'd, What dog-star, bull, or bear-star, when I married This second wife, this whirlwind, that takes all Within her compass? was I not well warn'd, (I thought I had, and I believe I know it,) And beaten to repentance in the dayes Of my first doting? had I not wife enough To turn my love to? did I want vexation, Or any special care to kill my heart? Had I not ev'ry morning a rare breakfast, Mixt with a learned Lecture of ill language, Louder than _Tom o'Lincoln_; and at dinner, A dyet of the same dish? was there evening That ere past over us, without thou Knave, Or thou Whore for digestion? had I ever A pull at this same poor sport men run mad for But like a Cur I was fain to shew my teeth first, And almost worry her? and did Heaven forgive me, And take this Serpent from me? and am I Keeping tame Devils now again? my heart akes; Something I must do speedily: I'll die, If I can hansomely, for that's the way To make a Rascal of her; I am sick, And I'll go very near it, but I'll perish. [_Exit._ _Scaena Quarta._