Mrs Fos. Why,
I'm sure you have heard the news; he's married, forsooth.
O. Fos. How, married?
No woman of repute would choose so slightly.
Mrs Fos. A woman, in whose breast I'd thought had liv'd
The very quintessence of discretion:
And who is't, think you? nay, you cannot guess,
Though I should give you a day to [un]riddle it:
It is my gossip, man, the rich
Widow of Cornhill.
O. Fos. Fie, fie! 'tis fabulous.
Mrs Fos. Are you my husband? then is she his wife.
How will this upstart beggar shoulder up,
And take the wall of you! his new-found pride
Will know no eldership.
O. Fos. But, wife, my wealth will five times double his
Ere this tide ebb again: I wonder I hear not
The brazen cannon proclaim the arrival
Of my infinite substance.
Mrs Fos. But beggars
Will be proud of little, and shoulder at the best.
O. Fos. Let him first pay his old score, and then reckon:
But that she——
Mrs Fos. Ay, that's it mads me too.
Would any woman, 'less to spite herself,
So much profane the sacred name of wedlock:
A dove to couple with a stork, or a lamb a viper?
O. Fos. Content thee; forgive her; she'll do so no more.
She was a rich widow: a wife he'll make her poor.