Enter Neece.
Neece. 'Tis, that 'tis; as I have hope of sweetness, the Scarfe's gone;
Worthy wise friend, I doat upon thy cunning,
We two shall be well matcht, our Issue-male, sure
Will be born Counsellors; is't possible?
Thou shalt have another token out of hand for't;
Nay, since the way's found, pitty thou shouldst want, y'faith,
O my best joy, and dearest.
O. K. Well said, Neece,
So violent 'fore your Uncle? What will you do
In secret then?
Sir Greg. Marry call me slave, and rascal.
Neece. Your Scarfe—the Scarfe I gave you—
O. K. Mass that's true Neece,
I ne'er thought upon that; the Scarfe she gave you—Sir?
What dumb? No answer from you? the Scarfe?
Sir Greg. I was way-laid about it, my life threatned;
Life's life, Scarfe's but a Scarfe, and so I parted from't.
Neece. Unfortunate woman! my first favor too?
O. K. Will you be still an ass? no reconcilement
'Twixt you and wit? Are you so far fallen out,
You'l never come together? I tell you true,
I'm very lowsily asham'd on you,
That's the worst shame that can be;
Thus bayting on him: now his heart's hook't in,
I'll make him, e'er I ha' done, take her with nothing,
I love a man that lives by his wits alife;
Nay leave, sweet Neece, 'tis but a Scarfe, let it go.
Neece. The going of it never grieves me, Sir.
It is the manner, the manner—