Lop. Within Sir, at what thrif[t] ye knave? what getting?
Pen. Getting a good stomach Sir, and she knew where to get meat to it,
She is praying heartily upon her knees Sir,
That Heaven would send her a good bearing dinner.
Lop. Nothing but gluttony and surfeit thought on,
Health flung behind: had she not yesternight sirrah
Two Sprats to supper, and the oil allowable?
Was she not sick with eating? Hadst not thou,
(Thou most ungrateful knave, that nothing satisfies)
The water that I boil'd my other egg in
To make thee hearty broth?
Pen. 'Tis true, I had Sir;
But I might as soon make the Philosophers Stone on't,
You gave it me in water, and but for manners sake,
I could give it you again, in wind, it was so hearty
I shall turn pissing-Conduit shortly: my Mistriss comes, Sir.
Enter Isabella.
Lop. Welcome my Dove.
Isab. Pray ye keep your welcome to ye,
Unless it carries more than words to please me,
Is this the joy to be a Wife? to bring with me,
Besides the nobleness of blood I spring from,
A full and able portion to maintain me?
Is this the happiness of youth and beauty,
The great content of being made a Mistriss,
To live a Slave subject to wants and hungers,
To jealousies for every eye that wanders?
Unmanly jealousie.
Lop. Good Isabella.
Isab. Too good for you: do you think to famish me,
Or keep me like an Alms-woman in such rayment,
Such poor unhandsome weeds? am I old, or ugly?
I never was bred thus: and if your misery
Will suffer wilful blindness to abuse me,
My patience shall be no Bawd to mine own ruine.
Pen. Tickle him Mistris: to him.