Dor. Well, thou art the dullest husband, thou art never to be provoked.
Rho. I was never thought dull till I married thee; and now thou hast made an old knife of me; thou hast whetted me so long, till I have no edge left.
Dor. I see you are in the husband's fashion; you reserve all your good humours for your mistresses, and keep your ill for your wives.
Rho. Prythee leave me to my own cogitations; I am thinking over all my sins, to find for which of them it was I married thee.
Dor. Whatever your sin was, mine's the punishment.
Rho. My comfort is, thou art not immortal; and, when that blessed, that divine day comes of thy departure, I'm resolved I'll make one holiday more in the almanack for thy sake.
Dor. Ay, you had need make a holiday for me, for I am sure you have made me a martyr.
Rho. Then, setting my victorious foot upon thy head, in the first hour of thy silence, (that is, the first hour thou art dead, for I despair of it before) I will swear by thy ghost,—an oath as terrible to me as Styx is to the gods,—never more to be in danger of the banes of matrimony.
Dor. And I am resolved to marry the very same day thou diest, if it be but to show how little I'm concerned for thee.
Rho. Pray thee, Doralice, why do we quarrel thus a-days? ha! this is but a kind of heathenish life, and does not answer the ends of marriage. If I have erred, propound what reasonable atonement may be made before we sleep, and I will not be refractory; but withal consider, I have been married these three years, and be not too tyrannical.