1 Gentlew. How have ye wrong'd this beauty?
Are not you mad my friend? what time o' th' moon is 't?
Have not you Maggots in your brains?
Lop. 'Tis she sure.
Gent. Where's the scratch'd face ye spoke of, the torn garments,
And all the hair pluck'd off her head?
Bar. Believe me,
'Twere better far you had lost your pair of pibbles,
Than she the least adornment of that sweetness.
Lop. Is not this blood?
1 Gentlew. This is a monstrous folly,
A base abuse.
Isab. Thus he does ever use me,
And sticks me up a wonder, not a woman,
Nothing I doe, but's subject to suspition;
Nothing I can do, able to content him.
Bar. Lopez, you must not use this.
2 Gentlew. 'Twere not amiss, Sir,
To give ye sauce to your meat, and suddainly.
1 Gentlew. You that dare wrong a woman of her goodness,
Thou have a Wife, thou have a Bear ty'd to thee,
To scratch thy jealous itch, were all o' my mind,
I mean all women, we would [soone] disburthen ye
Of that that breeds these fits, these dog-flaws in ye,
A Sow-guelder should trim ye.