Clown. I'll make them drink, if they will. Come, gallants, empty your bags, and I'll bumbast your bellies: this lean gentleman looks as if he had no lining in's guts; I could take him by the leg, and hurl him into the dog-house.
[Exeunt Robert, Speedwell, Lambskin, and
Clown.
Steph. How now, sweet wife, what art thou musing on?
Wife. I must come a-wooing to you, sir.
Steph. A-wooing, sweet, for what?
Wife. For your brother: O, 'tis unmeet
For souls fram'd by one square to grow uneven!
'Tis like a war 'mongst the great lights of heaven;
One cannot lose his beauty, but the other
Suffers eclipse—so brother against brother.
Steph. Wouldst have me kiss him that would kill me?
Wife. Would you kill a man lying at your feet?
Do good for ill.
Steph. Thy songs are angels' tunes,
And on thy wings I'll fly with thee to heaven.
Thou speakest as I would have thee;
His debts I have justly weighed, and find them light.