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can enter into mens beliefs,

       Such dearth should hang on thee. We that see it,

       Are sorry to believe it: in thy change,

       This voice into all places will be hurld:

       Thou and the devil has deceived the world.

       HUSBAND.

       I’ll not indure thee.

       GENTLEMAN.

       But of all the worst:

       Thy vertuous wife, right honourably allied,

       Thou hast proclaimed a strumpet.

       HUSBAND.

       Nay, the, I know thee.

       Thou art her champion, thou, her private friend,

       The party you wot on.

       GENTLEMAN.

       Oh ignoble thought.

       I am past my patient blood: shall I stand idle

       And see my reputation toucht to death?

       HUSBAND.

       Ta’s galde you, this, has it?

       GENTLEMAN.

       No, monster, I will prove

       My thoughts did only tend to vertuous love.

       HUSBAND.

       Love of her vertues? there it goes.

       GENTLEMEN.

       Base spirit,

       To lay thy hate upon the fruitful Honor

       Of thine own bed.

       [They fight and the Husband’s hurt.]

       HUSBAND.

       Oh!

       GENTLEMAN.

       Woult thou yield it yet?

       HUSBAND.

       Sir, Sir, I have not done with you.

       GENTLEMAN.

       I hope nor nere shall do.

       [Fight again.]

       HUSBAND.

       Have you got tricks? are you in cunning with me?

       GENTLEMAN.

       No, plain and right.

       He needs no cunning that for truth doth fight.

       [Husband falls down.]

       HUSBAND.

       Hard fortune, am I leveld with the ground?

       GENTLEMAN.

       Now, sir, you lie at mercy.

       HUSBAND.

       Aye, you slave.

       GENTLEMAN.

       Alas, that hate should bring us to our grave.

       You see my sword’s not thirsty for your life,

       I am sorrier for your wound then your self.

       Y’are of a vertuous house, show vertuous deeds;

       Tis not your honour, tis your folly bleeds;

       Much good has been expected in your life,

       Cancel not all men’s hopes: you have a wife

       Kind and obedient: heap not wrongful shame

       On her and your posterity, nor blame

       Your overthrow; let only sin be sore,

       And by this fall, rise never to fall more.

       And so I leave you.

       [Exit.]

       HUSBAND

       Has the dog left me, then,

       After his tooth hath left me? oh, my heart

       Would fain leap after him. Revenge, I say,

       I’m mad to be reveng’d. My strumpet wife,

       It is thy quarrel that rips thus my flesh,

       And makes my breast spit blood, but thou shalt bleed.

       Vanquisht? got down? unable e’en to speak?

       Surely tis want of money makes men weak.

       Aye, twas that orethrew me; I’d nere been down else.

       [Exit.]

       SCENE III. The same.

       [Enter wife in a riding suit with a servingman.]

       SERVINGMAN.

       Faith, mistress, If it might not be presumption

       In me to tell you so, for his excuse

       You had small reason, knowing his abuse.

       WIFE.

       I grant I had; but, alas,

       Why should our faults at home be spread abroad?

       Tis grief enough within doors. At first sight

       Mine Uncle could run o’er his prodigal life

       As perfectly, as if his serious eye

       Had numbered all his follies:

       Knew of his mortgaged lands, his friends in bonds,

       Himself withered with debts: And in that minute

       Had I added his usage and unkindness,

       Twould have confounded every thought of good:

       Where now, fathering his riots on his youth,

       Which time and tame experience will shake off,

       Guessing his kindness to me (as I smoothd him

       With all the skill I had) though his deserts

       Are in form uglier then an unshaped Bear,

       He’s ready to prefer him to some office

       And place at Court, A good and sure relief

       To all his stooping fortunes: twill be a means, I hope

       To make new league between us, and redeem

       His vertues with his lands.

       SERVINGMAN. I should think so, mistress. If he should not now be kind to you and love you, and cherish you up, I should think the devil himself kept open house in him.

       WIFE. I doubt not but he will now: prethe, leave me; I think I hear him coming.

       SERVINGMAN.

       I am gone.

       [Exit.]

       WIFE.

       By this good means I shall preserve my lands,

       And free my husband out of usurers hands:

       Now there is no need of sale, my Uncle’s kind,

       I hope, if ought, this will content his mind.—

       Here comes my husband.

       [Enter Husband.]

       HUSBAND.

       Now, are you come? where’s the money? let’s see the money.

       Is the rubbish sold, those wiseakers your lands? why, when?

       the money! where ist? powr’t down, down with it, down with it:

       I say powr’t oth ground! lets see’t, lets see’t.

       WIFE.

       Good sir, keep but in patience and I hope

       My words shall like you well: I bring you better

       Comfort then the sale of my Dowrie.

       HUSBAND.

       Ha, whats that?

       WIFE. Pray, do not fright me, sir, but vouchsafe me hearing: my Uncle, glad of your kindness to me and mild usage—for so I made it to him—has in pity of your declining fortunes, provided a place for you at Court of worth and credit, which so

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