TRUE: 'Tis very well, sir. If you laid on a curse or two more, I'll a.s.sure you he'll bear them. As, that he may get the pox with seeking to cure it, sir; or, that while he is curling another man's hair, his own may drop off; or, for burning some male-bawd's lock, he may have his brain beat out with the curling-iron.

MOR: No, let the wretch live wretched. May he get the itch, and his shop so lousy, as no man dare come at him, nor he come at no man!

TRUE: Ay, and if he would swallow all his b.a.l.l.s for pills, let not them purge him.

MOR: Let his warming pan be ever cold.

TRUE: A perpetual frost underneath it, sir.

MOR: Let him never hope to see fire again.

TRUE: But in h.e.l.l, sir.

MOR: His chairs be always empty, his scissors rust, and his combs mould in their cases.

TRUE: Very dreadful that! And may he lose the invention, sir, of carving lanterns in paper.

MOR: Let there be no bawd carted that year, to employ a bason of his: but let him be glad to eat his sponge for bread.

TRUE: And drink lotium to it, and much good do him.

MOR: Or, for want of bread--

TRUE: Eat ear-wax, sir. I'll help you. Or, draw his own teeth, and add them to the lute-string.

MOR: No, beat the old ones to powder, and make bread of them.

TRUE: Yes, make meal of the mill-stones.

MOR: May all the botches and burns that he has cured on others break out upon him.

TRUE: And he now forget the cure of them in himself, sir: or, if he do remember it, let him have sc.r.a.ped all his linen into lint for't, and have not a rag left him to set up with.

MOR: Let him never set up again, but have the gout in his hands for ever! Now, no more, sir.

TRUE: O, that last was too high set; you might go less with him, i'faith, and be revenged enough: as, that he be never able to new-paint his pole--

MOR: Good sir, no more, I forgot myself.

TRUE: Or, want credit to take up with a comb-maker--

MOR: No more, sir.

TRUE: Or, having broken his gla.s.s in a former despair, fall now into a much greater, of ever getting another--

MOR: I beseech you, no more.

TRUE: Or, that he never be trusted with tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of any but chimney-sweepers--

MOR: Sir--

TRUE: Or, may he cut a collier's throat with his razor, by chance-medley, and yet be hanged for't.

MOR: I will forgive him, rather than hear any more. I beseech you, sir.

[ENTER DAW, INTRODUCING LADY HAUGHTY, CENTAURE, MAVIS, AND TRUSTY.]

DAW: This way, madam.

MOR: O, the sea breaks in upon me! another flood! an inundation!

I shall be overwhelmed with noise. It beats already at my sh.o.r.es.

I feel an earthquake in my self for't.

DAW: 'Give you joy, mistress.

MOR: Has she servants too!

DAW: I have brought some ladies here to see and know you.

My lady Haughty-- [AS HE PRESENTS THEM SEVERALLY, EPI. KISSES THEM.]

this my lady Centaure--mistress Dol Mavis--mistress Trusty, my lady Haughty's woman. Where's your husband? let's see him: can he endure no noise? let me come to him.

MOR: What nomenclator is this!

TRUE: Sir John Daw, sir, your wife's servant, this.

MOR: A Daw, and her servant! O, 'tis decreed, 'tis decreed of me, an she have such servants.

TRUE: Nay sir, you must kiss the ladies; you must not go away, now: they come toward you to seek you out.

HAU: I'faith, master Morose, would you steal a marriage thus, in the midst of so many friends, and not acquaint us? Well, I'll kiss you, notwithstanding the justice of my quarrel: you shall give me leave, mistress, to use a becoming familiarity with your husband.

EPI: Your ladyship does me an honour in it, to let me know he is so worthy your favour: as you have done both him and me grace to visit so unprepared a pair to entertain you.

MOR: Compliment! compliment!

EPI: But I must lay the burden of that upon my servant here.

HAU: It shall not need, mistress Morose, we will all bear, rather than one shall be opprest.

MOR: I know it: and you will teach her the faculty, if she be to learn it.

[WALKS ASIDE WHILE THE REST TALK APART.]

HAU: Is this the silent woman?

CEN: Nay, she has found her tongue since she was married, master Truewit says.

HAU: O, master Truewit! 'save you. What kind of creature is your bride here? she speaks, methinks!