O. Fos. 'Tis in neither well, sir: for note but the
Condition of my estate; I'm lately married
To a wealthy widow, from whom my substance
Chiefly does arise: she has observed this in her
Son-in-law, often complains and grudges at it,
And what foul broils such civil discords bring,
Few married men are ignorant of.
Enter Mistress Foster.
Nay, will you see a present proof of it?
Mrs Fos. Shall I not live to breathe a quiet hour?
I would I were a beggar with content
Rather than thus be thwarted for mine own.
O. Fos. Why, what's the matter, woman?
Mrs Fos. I'll rouse 'em up,
Though you regard not of my just complaints,
Neither in love to me, nor [for] preserving me
From other injuries, both which you're tied to
By all the rightful laws, heavenly or humane—
But I'll complain, sir, where I will be heard.
O. Fos. Nay, thou'lt be heard too far.
Mrs Fos. Nay, sir, I will be heard:
Some awkward star threw out's unhappy fire
At my conception, and 'twill never quench,
While I have heat in me. Would I were cold!
There would be bonfires made to warm defame:
My death would be a jubilee to some.
O. Fos. Why, sir, how should I minister remedy
And know not the cause?