SCENE II.
Enter Dorothea, and Thomas.
Dor. Why do you rail at me? do I dwell in her
To force her to do this or that? your letter,
A wilde-fire on your letter; your sweet Letter;
You are so learned in your writs: ye stand now
As if ye had worried sheep: you must turn tippet,
And suddenly, and truely, and discreetly
Put on the shape of order and humanity,
Or you must marry Malkyn the May Lady:
You must, dear Brother: do you make me carrier
Of your confound-mee's, and your culverings?
Am I a seemly agent for your oaths?
Who would have writ such a debosh'd?
Thom. Your patience,
May not a man profess his love?
Dor. In blasphemies?
Rack a maids tender ears, with dam's and Devils?
Thom. Out, out upon thee,
How would you have me write?
Begin with my love premised? surely,
And by my truly Mistress.
Dor. Take your own course,
For I see all perswasion's lost upon ye:
Humanitie, all drown'd: from this hour fairly
I'le wash my hands of all ye do: farewel Sir.
Tho. Thou art not mad?
Dor. No, if I were, dear Brother
I would keep you company: get a new Mistress
Some suburb Saint, that six pence, and some others
Will draw to parley: carowse her health in Cans
And candles ends, and quarrel for her beauty,
Such a sweet heart must serve your turn: your old love
Releases ye of all your tyes; disclaims ye
And utterly abjures your memory
Till time has better manag'd ye, will ye command me—
Thom. What, bob'd of all sides?