Mir. Prithee put off this lightness;
This is no time for mirth, nor place; I have us'd too much on't:
I have undone my self, and a sweet Lady,
By being too indulgent to my foolery,
Which truly I repent; look here.
Bel. What ails she?
Mir. Alas, she's mad.
Bel. Mad?
Mir. Yes, too sure for me too.
Bel. Dost thou wonder at that? by this [good] light they are all so;
They are coz'ning mad, they are brawling mad, they are proud mad:
They are all, all mad; I came from a World of mad Women.
Mad as March-Hares; get 'em in Chains, then deal with 'em.
There's one that's mad; she seems well, but she is dog-mad.
Is she dead dost' think?
Mi[r]. Dead! Heaven forbid.
Bel. Heaven further it;
For till they be key cold dead, there's no trusting of 'em,
Whate'r they seem, or howsoe'r they carry it,
Till they be chap-faln, and their Tongues at peace,
Nail'd in their Coffins sure, I'll ne'r believe 'em,
Shall I talk with her?
Mir. No, dear friend, be quiet,
And be at peace a while.
Bel. I'll walk aside,
And come again anon: but take heed to her,
You say she is a Woman?