_Jaq._ I mean your chamber: y'are very merry Mistriss. _Mar._ 'Tis a good sign I am sound hearted _Jaques_: But if you'll know where I lie, follow me; And what thou seest, deliver to thy Master. _Bya._ Do gentle _Jaques_. [_Exeunt._ _Ja._ Ha, is the wind in that door? By'r Lady we shall have foul weather then: I do not like the shuffling of these women, They are mad beasts, when they knock their heads together: I have observ'd them all this day; their whispers, One in anothers ear, their signs and pinches, And breaking often into violent laughters: As if the end they purpos'd were their own. Call you this weddings? Sure this is a knavery, A very trick, and dainty knavery, Marvellous finely carried, that's the comfort: What would these women do in ways of honor? That are such Masters this way? Well, my Sir Has been as good at finding out these toys, As any living; if he lose it now, At his own peril be it. I must follow. [_Exit._ _Scaena Tertia._ _Enter Servants with Lights_, Petruchio, Petronius, Moroso, Tranio, _and_ Sophocles. _Pet._ You that are married, Gentlemen; have at ye For a round wager now. _Soph._ Of this nights Stage? _Petru._ Yes. _Soph._ I am your first man, a pair of Gloves of twenty shillings. _Petru._ Done: who takes me up next? I am for all bets. _Mor._ Well lusty _Lawrence_, were but my night now, Old as I am, I would make you clap on Spurs, But I would reach you, and bring you to your trot too: I would Gallants. _Petru._ Well said good Will; but where's the staff boy, ha? Old father Time, your hour-glass is empty. _Tra._ A good tough train would break thee all to pieces; Thou hast not breath enough to say thy prayers. _Petron._ See how these boys despise us. Will you to bed son? This pride will have a fall. _Petru._ Upon your daughter; But I shall rise again, if there be truth In Eggs, and butter'd Parsnips. _Petro._ Will you to bed son, and leave talking? To morrow morning we shall have you look, For all your great words, like _St. George_ at _Kingston_, Running a foot-back from the furious Dragon, That with her angry tail belabours him For being lazie. _Tra._ His courage quench'd, and so far quench'd-- _Petru._ 'Tis well Sir. What then? _Soph._ Fly, fly, quoth then the fearful dwarfe; Here is no place for living man. _Petru._ Well my masters, if I do sink under my business, as I find 'tis very possible, I am not the first that has miscarried; So that's my comfort, what may be done without impeach or waste, I can and will do. _Enter_ Jaques. How now, is my fair Bride a bed? _Jaq._ No truly, Sir. _Petron._ Not a bed yet? body o' me: we'll up and rifle her: here's a coil with a Maiden-head, 'tis not intail'd, is it?