Roy. You’re to be married, to-morrow: to be enslaved. Ah, what will become of you two?
Bess. We two will become one, that’s all.
Marcus. Yes, the sum total of my bliss will be a unit.
Roy. How you cypher that. Matrimonial figuring by addition makes two one, subtracts sweets from added blessings, and multiplies comforts by dividing labors. That’s the slate from which nothing can be wiped, but by fractures. Well bless you my children. I hope you will be as happy as May and I, and never quarrel.
Bess. And have no secrets——
Roy. Ahem! (Aside.) From you, impossible.
Bess. And have no going out of nights. Hey, Marcus.
Marcus. Most certainly not.
Roy. “Hark, from the graves a doleful sound.” Charity calls me out.
Bess. Charity begins at home.