Clor. And yet not you sweet Captain.
Fra. Why not he?
Jac. Well; I shall live to see your husbands beat you,
And hiss 'em on like ban-dogs.
Clora. Ha, ha, ha.
Jac. Green sicknesses and serving-men light on ye
With greasy Codpieces, and woollen stockings,
The Devil (if he dare deal with two women)
Be of your counsels: farewel Plaisterers— [Exit Jac.
Clora. This fellow will be mad at Mid-summer
Without all doubt.
Fab. I think so too.
Fra. I am sorry,
He's gone in such a rage; but sure this holds him
Not every day.
Fab. 'Faith every other day
If he come near a woman.
Clor. I wonder how his mother could endure
To have him in her Belly, he's so boysterous.