_Wife._ Marry come up, Sir Sauce-box; I think you'll take his part, will you not? Lord, how hot are you grown; you are a fine man, an' you had a fine dog, it becomes you sweetly. _Cit._ Nay, prithee Nell, chide not; for as I am an honest man, and a true Christian grocer, I do not like his doings. _Wife._ I cry you mercy then, George; you know we are all frail, and full of infirmities. D'ye hear, Master Merry-thought, may I crave a word with you? _Old Mer._ [within.] Strike up lively, lads. _Wife._ I had not thought in truth, Master Merry-thought, that a man of your age and discretion, as I may say, being a gentleman, and therefore known by your gentle conditions, could have used so little respect to the weakness of his wife; for your wife is your own flesh, the staff of your age, your yoke-fellow, with whose help you draw through the mire of this transitory world. Nay, she is your own rib. And again---- _Old Mer._ "I come not hither for thee to teach, I have no pulpit for thee to preach, As thou art a lady gay." _Wife._ Marry with a vengeance! I am heartily sorry for the poor gentlewoman; but if I were thy wife, i'faith, gray beard, i'faith---- _Cit._ I prithee, sweet honeysuckle, be content. _Wife._ Give me such words that am a gentlewoman born, hang him, hoary rascal! Get me some drink, George, I am almost molten with fretting. Now beshrew his knave's heart for it. _Old Mer._ Play me a light lavalto. Come, be frolic, fill the good fellows wine. _Mist. Mer._ Why, Master Merry-thought, are you disposed to make me wait here. You'll open, I hope; I'll fetch them that shall open else. _Old Mer._ Good woman, if you will sing, I'll give you something, if not---- SONG. You are no love for me, Marget, I am no love for you. Come aloft, boys, aloft. _Mist. Mer._ Now a churl's fist in your teeth, sir. Come, Mick, we'll not trouble him, a shall not ding us i' th' teeth with his bread and his broth, that he shall not. Come, boy, I'll provide for thee, I warrant thee. We'll go to Master Venterwels the merchant; I'll get his letter to mine host of the Bell in Waltham, there I'll place thee with the tapster; will not that do well for thee, Mick? And let me alone for that old rascally knave, your father; I'll use him in his kind, I warrant ye. _Wife._ Come, George, where's the beer? _Cit._ Here, love. _Wife._ This old fumigating fellow will not out of my mind yet. Gentlemen, I'll begin to you all, I desire more of your acquaintance, with all my heart. Fill the gentlemen some beer, George. * * * * * ACT IV.--SCENE I. _Boy danceth._