Shakespeare:
Forget! work! That is the worst of her, she kills my work, and yet she quickens life in me. When we sacrifice ourselves for some one, Ben; when we give too much; we grow to hate her! ... Is it not shameful of her to tease me so? [Goes to window again and looks out.] The slut! [Sits down again.]
Jonson:
They say a man gets the woman he merits. I have a shrew, a scold, constant and jealous like the itch; you a wanton, mad with pride. Yet we could be free if we would; we are afraid to hurt them, Will; that’s it—afraid. What fools men are!
Shakespeare:
[Starting up.] I wish she were here, I’d hurt her——
Jonson:
Hark; she comes! I’ll not spoil sport.
[Exit by door, L.