Fool. It is but capering short, Sir,
You seldom stay for Agues or for Surfeits,
A shaking fit of a whip sometimes o'retakes ye,
Marry you dye most commonly of choakings,
Obstructions of the halter are your ends ever;
Pray leave your horn and your knife for her to live on.
Eva. Poor wretched people, why do you wrong your selves?
Though I fear'd death, I should fear you ten times more,
You are every one a new death, and an odious,
The earth will purifie corrupted bodies,
You'll make us worse and stink eternally.
Go home, go home and get good Nurses for you,
Dream not of Wives.
Fred. You shall have one of 'em, if they dare venture for ye.
Evan. They are dead already,
Crawling diseases that must creep into
The next grave they find open, are these fit Husbands
For her you have loved, Sir? though you hate me now,
And hate me mortally, as I hate you,
Your nobleness, in that you have done otherwise,
And named Evanthe once as your poor Mistris,
Might offer worthier choice.
Fre. Speak, who dare take her for one moneth, and then dye?
Phy. Dye, Sir?
Fred. I, dye Sir, that's the condition.
Phy. One moneth is too little
For me to repent in for my former pleasure,
To go still on, unless I were sure she would kill me,
And kill me delicately before my day,
Make it up a year, for by that time I must dye,
My body will hold out no longer.
Fred. No Sir, it must be but a moneth.
Law. Then farewel Madam,
This is like to be a great year of dissention
Among good people, and I dare not lose it,
There will e money got.