M. Mery. Who can blame this woman to fume and frette and rage?
Tut, tut, your selfe nowe haue marde your owne marriage.
Well, yet mistresse Custance, if ye can this remitte,
This gentleman other wise may your loue requitte.
C. Custance. No God be with you both, and seeke no more to me. Exeat.
R. Royster. Wough, she is gone for euer, I shall hir no more see.
M. Mery. What weepe? fye for shame, and blubber? for manhods sake,
Neuer lette your foe so muche pleasure of you take.
Rather play the mans parte, and doe loue refraine.
If she despise you een despise ye hir againe.