Wife. O that ever I was born: why Gent?
Corn. Messaline of Rome, away, disloyal Concubine: I will be deafer to thee, then thou art to others: I will have my hundred drachma's he owes me, thou arrant whore.
Wife. I know he is an hundred drachmaes o'the score; but what o' that? no bloodshed, sweet Cornelius. O my heart; o' my conscience 't is faln thorow the bottom of my bellie. O my sweet Didimus, if either of ye miskil one another, what will become of [p]oor Florence? Pacifie your selves, I pray.
Corn. Go to, my heart is not stone; I am not marble: drie your eyes, Florence; the scurvie apes-face knows my blinde side well enough: leave your puling; will this content ye? let him tast thy nether lip, which in signe of amitie I thus take off again: go thy ways, and provide the Cows udder.
Nich. Lilie of Concord. And now, honest Sutler, since I have had proof as well of thy good nature, as of thy wives before, I will acquaint thee with a project shall fully satisfie thee for thy debt. Thou shalt understand I am shortly to be knighted.
Corn. The devil thou art.
Nich. Renounce me else; for the sustenance of which Worship (which Worship many times wants sustenance) I have here the Generals grant to have the leading of two hundred men.
Corn. You jest, you jest.
Nich. Refuse me else to the pit.