Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews.
[Strikes Zanche.
Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court!
[Exit Cornelia.
Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maids
Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff,
For fear of her light fingers.
Marc. You 're a strumpet,
An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche.
Flam. Why do you kick her, say?
Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree?
Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit?
Marc. She brags that you shall marry her.
Flam. What then?
Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake,
In some new-seeded garden, to affright
Her fellow crows thence.
Flam. You 're a boy, a fool,
Be guardian to your hound; I am of age.
Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat.