SCENE II.
Enter Husband and Wife.
Hus. Zounds! you're a whore; though I entreat him fair
Before his face, in compliment or so,
I not esteem him truly as this rush.
There's no such thing as friendship in the world,
And he that cannot swear, dissemble, lie,
Wants knowledge how to live, and let him die.
Wife. Sir, I did think you had esteem'd of him,
As you made show; therefore I us'd him well,
And yet not so, but that the strictest eye
I durst have made a witness of my carriage.
Hus. Plague o' your carriage! why, he kiss'd your hand,
Look'd babies in your eyes, and wink'd and pink'd.
You thought I had esteem'd him! 'Sblood, you whore!
Do not I know that you do know you lie?
When didst thou hear me say and mean one thing?
O, I could kick you now, and tear your face,
And eat thy breasts like udders.
Wife. Sir, you may,
But if I know what hath deserv'd all this,
I am no woman: 'cause he kiss'd my hand
Unwillingly?
Hus. A little louder, pray.
Wife. You are a base fellow, an unworthy man,
As e'er poor gentlewoman match'd withal.
Why should you make such show of love to any
Without the truth? thy beastly mind is like
Some decay'd tradesman, that doth make his wife
Entertain those for gain he not endures.
Pish! swell and burst: I had rather with thy sword
Be hew'd to pieces, than lead such a life.
Out with it, valiant sir: I hold you for
A drawer upon women, not on men.
I will no more conceal your hollow heart,
But e'en report you as you are in truth.
Hus. This is call'd marriage. Stop your mouth, you whore.
Wife. Thy mother was a whore, if I be one.
Hus. You know there's company in the house.
Enter Subtle.
Sweet friend, what, have you writ your letter?
Sub. Tis done, dear friend: I have made you stay too long;
I fear you'll be benighted.
Hus. Fie! no, no.
Madam and sweetest wife, farewell; God bless us.
Make much of Master Subtle here, my friend, [Kisses her.
Till my return, which may be ev'n as't happens,
According as my business hath success.
[Exit.
Sub. How will you pass the time now, fairest mistress?
Wife. In troth, I know not: wives without their husbands,
Methinks, are low'ring days.
Sub. Indeed, some wives
Are like dead bodies in their husbands' absence.
Wife. If any wife be, I must needs be so,
That have a husband far above all men;
Untainted with the humours others have,
A perfect man, and one that loves you truly:
You see the charge he left of your good usage.
Sub. Pish! he's an ass, I know him; a stark ass,
Of a most barbarous condition,
False-hearted to his friend, rough unto you;
A most dissembling and perfidious fellow.
I care not if he heard me: this I know,
And will make good upon him with my sword,
Or any for him—for he will not fight.
Wife. Fie, servant! you show small civility
And less humanity: d'ye requite
My husband's love thus ill? for what d'ye think
Of me, that you will utter to my face
Such harsh, unfriendly, slanderous injuries
Even of my husband? Sir, forbear, I pray,
My ears or your own tongue: I am no house-wife
To hear my husband's merit thus deprav'd.
Sub. His merit is a halter, by this light.
You think he's out of town now; no such matter:
But gone aside, and hath importun'd me
To try your chastity.
Wife. It cannot be.
Alas! he is as free from jealousy,
And ever was, as confidence itself.
I know he loves me too-too heartily
To be suspicious, or to prove my truth.
Sub. If I do feign in ought, ne'er may I purchase
The grace I hope for! and, fair mistress,
If you have any spirit, or wit, or sense,
You will be even with such a wretched slave.
Heaven knows I love you as the air I draw!
Think but how finely you may cuckold him,
And safely, too, with me, who will report
To him, that you are most invincible,
Your chastity not to be subdu'd by man.
Wife. When you know I'm a whore?
Sub. A whore? fie! no;
That you have been kind, or so: your whore doth live
In Pickt-hatch,[92] Turnbull Street.
Wife. Your whore lives there!
[Aside.]
Well, servant, leave me to myself awhile:
Return anon; but bear this hope away,
'T shall be with you, if I at all do stray.
[Exit Subtle.
Why, here's right wordly[93] friendship! ye're well-met.
O men! what are you? why is our poor sex
Still made the disgrac'd subjects in these plays
For vices, folly, and inconstancy:
When, were men look'd into with such critical eyes
Of observation, many would be found
So full of gross and base corruption,
That none (unless the devil himself turn'd writer)
Could feign so badly to express them truly?
Some wives that had a husband now, like mine,
Would yield their honours up to any man:
Far be it from my thoughts! O, let me stand,
Thou God of marriage and chastity,
An honour to my sex! no injury
Compel the virtue of my breast to yield!
It's not revenge for any wife to stain
The nuptial bed, although she be yok'd ill.
Who falls, because her husband so hath done,
Cures not his wound, but in herself makes one.
[Exit Wife.