Cun. Come, down on your knees first, and thank your Stars.
Sir Greg. A fire of my stars, I may thank you, I think.
Cun. So you may pray for me, and honor me,
That have preserv'd you from a lasting torment,
For a perpetual comfort; Did you call me friend?
Sir Greg. I pray pardon me for that, I did miscall you, I confess.
Cun. And should I, receiving such a thankful name,
Abuse it in the act? Should I see my friend
Bafled, disgrac'd, without any reverence
To your title, to be call'd slave, rascal?
Nay curst to your face, fool'd, scorn'd, beaten down
With a womans peevish hate, yet I should stand
And suffer you to be lost, cast away?
I would have seen you buried quick first,
Your spurs of Knighthood to have wanted rowels,
And to be kickt from your heels; slave, rascall?
Hear this Tongue?
Mir. My dearest Love, sweet Knight, my Lord, my Husband.
Cun. So, this is not slave, and rascall then.
Mir. What shall your eye command, but shall be done,
In all the duties of a loyal Wife?
Cun. Good, good, are not curses fitter for you? wer't not better
Your head were broke with the handle of a fan,
Or your nose bor'd with a silver bodkin?
Mir. Why, I will be a servant in your Lady.