Asc. Madam, 'tis true, there may be such a favour
And we may ask it too; ask it with honor;
And thank you for that favour, nobly thank you,
Though it be death; but when we beg a base life,
And beg it of your scorn—
Vir. Y'are couzen'd woman,
Your handsomness may do much, but not this way;
But for your glorious hate—
Mart. Are ye so stubborn?
'Death, I will make you bow.
Vir. It must be in your bed then;
There you may work me to humility.
Mart. Why, I can kill thee.
Vir. If you do it handsomely;
It may be I can thank you, else—
Mart. So glorious?
A[sc]. Her cruelty now works.
Mart. Yet woot thou?
Vir. No.