Lady. Shall we be the better by it then?
Eld. L. No, he that makes a woman better by his words, I'le have him Sainted: blows will not doe it.
Lady. By this light hee'll beat us.
Elder Lo. You do deserve it richly, And may live to have a Beadle doe it.
Lady. Now he rails.
Elder Lo. Come scornfull Folly, If this be railing, you shall hear me rail.
Lady. Pray put it in good words then.
Elder Lo. The worst are good enough for such a trifle, Such a proud piece of Cobweblawn.
Lady. You bite Sir?
Elder Lo. I would till the bones crackt, and I had my will.