Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I 'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villainy. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears; but for fear of her turning upon me, and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil. Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee. Flam. 'Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from 't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at 's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him. Now, my precious gipsy. Zan. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats. Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover; we have many wenches about the town heat too fast. Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then? Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confident They have a certain spice of the disease; For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas. Zan. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you loathe me. Flam. How, love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I 'll unkennel one example more for thee. Æsop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to catch the shadow; I would have courtiers be better diners. Zan. You remember your oaths? Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity; but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen, protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on protestation, and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this discourse better now than the morality of your sunburnt gentleman? Enter Cornelia Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews. [Strikes Zanche. Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court! [Exit Cornelia. Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maids Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff, For fear of her light fingers. Marc. You 're a strumpet, An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche. Flam. Why do you kick her, say? Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree? Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit? Marc. She brags that you shall marry her. Flam. What then? Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake, In some new-seeded garden, to affright Her fellow crows thence. Flam. You 're a boy, a fool, Be guardian to your hound; I am of age. Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat. Flam. With a fan of feather? Marc. And, for you, I 'll whip This folly from you. Flam. Are you choleric? I 'll purge it with rhubarb. Hort. Oh, your brother!