Abi. Well, Thais. O you’re a cunning carver;[160] we two, that any time these fourteen years have called sisters, brought and bred up together, that have told one another all our wanton dreams, talk’d all night long of young men, and spent many an idle hour; fasted upon the stones on St. Agnes’[161] night together, practised all the petulant amorousness that delights young maids, yet have you conceal’d not only the marriage, but the man: and well you might deceive me, for I’ll be sworn you never dream’d of him, and it stands against all reason you should enjoy him you never dream’d of. 221
Tha. Is not all this the same in you? Did you ever manifest your sweetheart’s nose, that I might nose him by’t? commended his calf or his nether lip? apparent signs that you were not in love, or wisely covered it. Have you ever said, such a man goes upright, or has a better gait than any of the rest, as indeed, since he is
proved a magnifico, I thought thou would’st have put it into my hands whate’er ’t had been. 229
Abi. Well, wench, we have cross fates; our husbands such inveterate foes, and we such entire friends; but the best is we are neighbours, and our back arbors may afford visitation freely. Prithee, let us maintain our familiarity still, whatsoever thy husband do unto thee, as I am afraid he will cross it i’ the nick.
Tha. Faith, you little one, if I please him in one thing, he shall please me in all, that’s certain. Who shall I have to keep my counsel if I miss thee? who shall teach me to use the bridle when the reins are in mine own hand? what to long for? when to take physic? where to be melancholy? Why, we two are one another’s grounds,[162] without which would be no music. 242
Abi. Well said, wench; and the prick-song we use shall be our husbands.
Tha. I will long for swine’s-flesh o’ the first child.
Abi. Wilt ’ou, little Jew? And I to kiss thy husband upon the least belly-ache. This will mad ’em.
Tha. I kiss thee, wench, for that, and with it confirm our friendship.
Men. By these sweet lips, widow! 250