_Mor._ Do as she [sh]ould do; Put on a clean Smock, and to Church, and Marry, And then to Bed a Gods name, this is fair play, And keeps the Kings peace, let her leave her bobs, I have had too many of them, and her quillets, She is as nimble that way as an Ee[le]; But in the way she ought to me especially, A sow of Lead is swifter. _Petron._ Quoat your griefs down. _Mor._ Give fair quarter, I am old and crasie, And subject to much fumbling, I confess it; Yet something I would have that's warme, to hatch me: But understand me I would have it so, I buy not more repentance in the bargain Than the ware's worth I have; if you allow me Worthy your Son-in-Law, and your allowance, Do it a way of credit; let me show so, And not be troubled in my visitations, With blows, and bitterness, and down-right railings, As if we were to couple like two Cats, With clawing, and loud clamour: _Petron._ Thou fond Man. Hast thou forgot the Ballad, crabbed age, Can _May_ and _January_ match together, And nev'r a storm between 'em? say she abuse thee, Put case she doe. _Mor._ Well. _Petron._ Nay, believe she do's. _Mor._ I do believe she do's. _Petron._ And div'lishly: Art thou a whit the worse? _Mor._ That's not the matter, I know, being old, tis fit I am abus'd; I know 'tis hansome, and I know moreover I am to love her for't. _Petron._ Now you come to me. _Mor._ Nay more than this; I find too, and find certain, What Gold I have, Pearle, Bracelets, Rings, or Owches, Or what she can desire, Gowns, Petticotes, Wastcotes, Embroydered-stockings, Scarffs, Cals, Feathers, Hats, five pound Garters, Muffs, Masks, Ruffs, and Ribands, I am to give her for't. _Petron._ 'Tis right, you are so. _Mor._ But when I have done all this, and think it duty, Is't requisit an other bore my nostrils? Riddle me that. _Petron._ Go get you gone, and dreame She's thine within these two dayes, for she is so; The Boy's beside the saddle: get warm broths, And feed a pace; think not of worldly business, It cools the blood; leave off your tricks, they are hateful, And meere fore-runners of the ancient measures; Contrive your beard o'th top cut like _Verdugoes_; It shows you would be wise, and burn your night-cap, It looks like half a winding-sheet, and urges From a young Wench nothing but cold repentance: You may eate Onyons, so you'l not be lavish. _Mor._ I am glad of that. _Petron._ They purge the blood, and quicken, But after 'em, conceive me, sweep your mouth, And where there wants a tooth, stick in a clove. _Mor._ Shall I hope once again, say't. _Petra._ You shall Sir: And you shall have your hope. _Moro._ Why there's a match then. _Enter_ Byancha _and_ Tranio.