_Cun._ And should I, receiving such a thankful name, Abuse it in the act? Should I see my friend Bafled, disgrac'd, without any reverence To your title, to be call'd slave, rascal? Nay curst to your face, fool'd, scorn'd, beaten down With a womans peevish hate, yet I should stand And suffer you to be lost, cast away? I would have seen you buried quick first, Your spurs of Knighthood to have wanted rowels, And to be kickt from your heels; slave, rascall? Hear this Tongue? _Mir._ My dearest Love, sweet Knight, my Lord, my Husband. _Cun._ So, this is not slave, and rascall then. _Mir._ What shall your eye command, but shall be done, In all the duties of a loyal Wife? _Cun._ Good, good, are not curses fitter for you? wer't not better Your head were broke with the handle of a fan, Or your nose bor'd with a silver bodkin? _Mir._ Why, I will be a servant in your Lady. _Cun._ 'Pox, but you shall not, she's too good for you, This contract shall be a nullity, I'll break't off, And see you better bestow'd. _Sir Greg._ 'Slid, but you shall not, Sir, she's mine own, and I am hers, and we are one anothers lawfully, and let me see him that will take her away by the Civil Law: if you be my friend, keep you so, if you have done me a good turn, do not hit me i'th' teeth with't, that's not the part of a friend. _Cun._ If you be content-- _Sir Greg._ Content? I was never in better contention in my life. I'll not change her for both the Exchanges, New or the Old; Come, kiss me boldly. _Clow._ Give you joy, Sir. _Sir Greg._ Oh Sir, I thank you as much as though I did, you are belov'd of Ladies, you see we are glad of under-women. _Clow._ Ladies? let not Ladies be disgrac'd, you are as it were a Married Man, and have a family, and for the parties sake that was unnam'd before, being Pese-cod time, I am appeas'd, yet I would wish you make a Ruler of your Tongue. _Cun._ Nay, no dissention here, I must bar that, And this (friend) I entreat you, and be advis'd, Let this private contract be yet conceal'd, And still support a seeming face of love Unto the Lady; mark how it availes you, And quits all her scorns, her Unckle is now hot In pursuit of the match, and will enforce her, Bend her proud stomach, that she shall proffer Her self to you, which when you have flouted, And laught your fill at, you shall scorn her off, With all your disgraces trebled upon her, For there the pride of all her heart will bow, When you shall foot her from you, not she you. _Sir Greg._ Good I'faith; I'll continue it, I'd fain laugh at the old fellow too, for he has abus'd me as scurvily as his Neece, my Knight-hood's upon the spur, we'll go to Bed, and then to Church as fast as we can. [_Exit_ Sir Greg, _and_ Mirab.