Wid. Peace, sirrah! How can your sorrows increase from him?
Mrs Fos. How can they but o'erwhelm me? He keeps a son,
That makes my state his prodigality;
To him a brother, one of the city scandals.
The one the hand, the other is the maw;
And between both my goods are swallowed up.
The full quantity that I brought amongst 'em
Is now consum'd to half.
Wid. The fire of your spleen wastes it:
Good sooth, gossip, I could laugh at thee, and only grieve
I have not some cause of sorrow with thee:
Prythee, be temperate, and suffer.
Doc. 'Tis good counsel, mistress; receive it so.
Wid. Canst thou devise to lay them half on me?
And I'll bear 'em willingly.
Mrs Fos. Would I could! that I might laugh another while:
But you are wise to heed at others' harms;
You'll keep you happy in your widowhood.
Wid. Not I, in good faith, were I sure marriage
Would make me unhappy.
Mrs Fos. Try, try, you shall not need to wish;
You'll sing another song, and bear a part
In my grief's descant, when you're vex'd at heart:
Your second choice will differ from the first;
So oft as widows marry, they are accurs'd.
Clown. Ay, cursed widows are; but if they had all stiff husbands to tame 'em, they'd be quiet enough.
Wid. You'll be gone, sir, and see dinner ready.