Sce. She will be sick, well, sullen,
Merry, coy, over-joy'd, and seem to dye
All in one half hour, to make an asse of him:
I make no doubt she will be drunk too damnably,
And in her drink will fight, then she fits him.
Ant. That thou shouldst bring her in!
Sce. 'Twas my blind fortune,
My Souldiers told me, by the weight 'twas wicked:
Would I had carried Milo's Bull a furlong,
When I brought in this Cow-Calf: he has advanced me