Young Lionel. [_Coming forward_.] Those rags be thy reward!--Oh, my sweet Blanda, Only for thee I wish my father dead, And ne’er to rouse us from our sweet delight; But for this hag, this beldam, she whose back Hath made her items in my mercer’s books; Whose ravenous guts I have stuffed with delicates, Nay even to surfeit; and whose frozen blood I have warmed with aquavitæ--be this day My last of bounty to a wretch ingrate; But unto thee a new indenture[3.08] sealed Of an affection fixed and permanent. I’ll love thee still, be’t but to give the lie To this old cankered worm. Blanda. Nay, be not angry. Young Lionel. With thee my soul shall ever be at peace; But with this love-seducer, still at war. Scapha. Hear me but speak. Young Lionel. Ope but thy lips again, it makes a way To have thy tongue plucked out. _Enter_ Rioter _and two_ Gallants. Rioter. What, all in tempest! Young Lionel. Yes, and the storm raised by that witch’s spells; Oh, ’tis a damned enchantress! Rioter. What’s the business? Blanda. Only some few words, slipped her unawares: For my sake make her peace. Rioter. You charge me deeply. Come, friend, will you be moved at women’s words, A man of your known judgment? Young Lionel. Had you but heard The damned erroneous doctrine that she taught, You would have judged her to the stake. Blanda. But, sweetheart, She now recants those errors; once more number her Amongst your household servants. Rioter. Shall she beg, And be denied aught from you? Blanda. Come, this kiss Shall end all former quarrels. Rioter. ’Tis not possible Those lips should move in vain, that two ways plead,-- Both in their speech and silence. Young Lionel. You have prevailed, But upon this condition, no way else: I’ll censure her, as she hath sentenced thee, But with some small inversion. Rioter. Speak, how’s that? Blanda. Not too severe, I prithee; see, poor wretch, She at the bar stands quaking. Young Lionel. Now, hold up-- Rioter. How, man, how? Young Lionel. Her hand, I mean.--And now I’ll sentence thee, According to thy counsel given to her: Sail by one wind; thou shalt to one tune sing, Lie at one guard, and play but on one string; Henceforth I will confine thee to one garment, And that shall be a cast one, like thyself, Just past all wearing, as thou past all use, And not to be renewed, till’t be as ragged As thou art rotten. Blanda. Nay, sweet-- Young Lionel. That for her habit. Scapha. A cold suit I have on’t. Young Lionel. To prevent surfeit, Thy diet shall be to one dish confined, And that too rifled, with as unclean hands As e’er were laid on thee. Scapha. What he scants me in victuals, would he but allow me in drink!