_Cornel._ A ---- o' your poeticall veine: This versifying my wife has hornified me. Sweet Corporall codshead, no more standing on your punctilio's and punketto's of honor, they are not worth a lowse: the truth is, thou art the Generals Bygamie, that is, his fool, and his knave; thou art miscreant and recreant, not an horse-boy in the Legions, but has beaten thee; thy beginning was knap-sack, and thy ending will be halter-sack. _Nich._ Me thinks I am now _Sophocles_, the wise, and thou art _Martius_, the mad. _Cornel._ No more of your tricks good Corporall Letherchops: I say, thou hast dishonour'd me, and since honor now adaies is only repaired by money, pay me, and I am satisfied: Even reckoning keeps long friends. _Nic._ Let us continue friends then, for I have been even with thee a long time; and though I have not paid thee, I have paid thy wife. _Corn._ Flow forth my tears, thou hast deflowred her _Tarquin_, the Garden of my delight, hedg'd about, in which there was but one bowling Alley for mine owne private procreation, thou hast, like a thief in the night, leap'd the hedge, entred my Alley, and without my privitie, plaid thine owne rubbers. _Nic._ How long shall patience thus securely snore? Is it my fault, if these attractive eyes, This budding chin, or rosie-colour'd cheek, This comely body, and this waxen leg, Have drawn her into a fools paradise? By _Cupids_ ---- I do swear (no other) She's chaster far then _Lucrece_, her grand-mother; Pure as glass-window, ere the rider dash it, Whiter then Ladyes smock, when she did wash it: For well thou wotst (though now my hearts Commandress) I once was free, and she but the Camps Landress. _Corn._ I, she then came sweet to me; no part about her but smelt of Soap-suds, like a _Dryad_ out of a wash-bowl. Pray, or pay. _Nich._ Hold. _Corn._ Was thy cheese mouldy, or thy peny-worths small? Was not thy Ale the mightiest of the earth in Malt, And thy stope fill'd like a tide: was not thy bed soft, and Thy Bacon fatter then a dropsie? Come, Sir. _Nich. Mars_ then inspire me with the fencing skill Of our Tragedi[a]n Actors. Honor pricks; And Sutler, now I come with thwacks and thwicks. Grant us one crush, one pass, and now a high, Cavalto fall: Then up again, now down again, yet do no harm at all. _Enter Wife._ _Wife._ O that ever I was born: why Gent? _Corn. Messaline_ of _Rome_, away, disloyal Concubine: I will be deafer to thee, then thou art to others: I will have my hundred drachma's he owes me, thou arrant whore.