Mar. My sight was a little dim i'th' dark indeed,
So was my feeling cozen'd; yet I'm content:
I am the better understander now,
I know my wife wants nothing of a woman;
There y'are my Junior.
Ant. You are not hurt?
Mar. Not shrewdly hurt; I [h]ave good flesh to heal, you see,
Good round flesh: these cherries will be worth chopping,
Crack stones and all; I should not give much to boot
To ride in your new, and you in my old ones now.
Ant. You mistake the weapon: are you not hurt?
Mar. A little scratch: but I shall claw it off well enough.
Enter Gillian.
Gill. I can no longer own what is not mine
With a free conscience: My Liege, your pardon.
Phil. For what? who knows this woman?
Fra. I best, my Lord,
I have been acquainted with her these forty Summers,
And as many Winters, were it Spring agen;
She's like the Gout I can get no cure for her.
Phil. Oh, your Wife, Franio?