La. Sorrow must have his course, sirra,
Give him some Sack to dry up his remembrance,
How does the Bridegroom, I was afraid of him.
Nur. He is a trim youth to be tender of, hemp take him.
Must my sweet new blown Rose find such a winter
Before her spring be near.
La. Peace, peace, thou art foolish.
Nur. And dances like a Town-top: and reels, and hobbles.
La. Alass, good Gentleman, give him not much wine.
Tob. He shall ha'none by my consent.
La. Are the women comforting my daughter?
New. Yes, yes, Madam,
And reading to her a pattern of true patience,
They read and pray for her too.
Nur. They had need,
Ye had better marry her to her grave a great deal:
There will be peace and rest, alass poor Gentlewoman,
Must she become a Nurse now in her tenderness?
Well Madam, well my heart bleeds.
La. Thou art a fool still.