Cun. No more replyes, you shall, I'll prevent this,
Pompey shall march without it.
Sir Greg. What, is't he?
My Man that was?
Cun. Call him your deadly Enemy;
You give him too fair a name, you deal too nobly,
He bears a bloody mind, a cruel foe, Sir,
I care not if he heard me.
Sir Greg. But, Do you hear, Sir?
Can't sound with reason she should affect him?
Cun. Do you talk of reason? I never thought to have heard
Such a word come from you; reason in love?
Would you give that, no Doctor could e'er give?
Has not a Deputy married his Cook-maid?
An Aldermans Widow, one that was her turn-broach?
Nay, Has not a great Lady brought her Stable
Into her Chamber: lay with her Horse-keeper?
Sir Greg. Did ever love play such Jades tricks, Sir?
Cun. Oh thousands, thousands: Beware a sturdy Clown e're while you live, Sir;
'Tis like a huswifery in most Shires about us;
You shall ha' Farmers Widows wed thin Gentlemen,
Much like your self, but put'em to no stress;
What work can they do, with small trap-stick legs?
They keep Clowns to stop gaps, and drive in pegs,
A drudgery fit for Hindes, e'en back agen, Sir,
Your're safest at returning.
Sir Greg. Think you so, Sir?
Cun. But, How came this Clown to be call'd Pompey first?
Sir Greg. Push, one good-man Cæsar, a Pump-maker kersen'd him;
Pompey he writes himself, but his right name's Pumpey,
And stunk too when I had him, now he's crank.