_Bea._ Do you then live? and are you not untrue? 70 Let me not die with joy; pleasure's more extreme Than grief; there's nothing sweet to man but mean. _Free._ Heaven cannot be too gracious to such goodness. I shall discourse to you the several chances; But hark, I must yet rest disguis'd; The sudden close of many drifts now meet: Where pleasure hath some profit, art is sweet. _Enter_ TYSEFEW. _Tyse._ News, news, news, news! _Cri._ Oysters, oysters, oysters, oysters! 79 _Tyse._ Why, is not this well now? Is not this better than louring and pouting and puling, which is hateful to the living and vain to the dead? Come, come, you must live by the quick, when all is done; and for my own part, let my wife laugh at me when I am dead, so she'll smile upon me whilst I live: but to see a woman whine, and yet keep her eyes dry: mourn, and yet keep her cheeks fat: nay, to see a woman claw her husband by the feet when he is dead, that would have scratched him by the face when he was living--this now is somewhat ridiculous. 90 _Cri._ Lord, how you prate. _Tyse._ And yet I was afraid, i'faith, that I should ha' seen a garland on this beauty's hearse; but time, truth, experience, and variety, are great doers with women. _Cri._ But what's the news?--the news, I pray you? _Tyse._ I pray you? ne'er pray me: for by your leave you may command me. This 'tis: The public sessions, which this day is past, Hath doom'd to death ill-fortuned Malheureux. _Cri._ But, sir, we heard he offer'd to make good, 100 That Freevill lived at Shatewe's the jeweller's---- _Bea._ And that 'twas but a plot betwixt them two. _Tyse._ O, ay, ay, he gaged his life with it; but know, When all approach'd the test, Shatewe[104] denied He saw or heard of any such complot, Or of Freevill; so that his own defence Appeared so false, that, like a madman's sword, He stroke his own heart; he hath the course of law, And instantly must suffer. But the jest (If hanging be a jest, as many make it) 110 Is to take notice of one Mulligrub, A sharking vintner. _Free._ What of him, sir? _Tyse._ Nothing but hanging: the whoreson slave is mad before he hath lost his senses. _Free._ Was his fact[105] clear and made apparent, sir?