Mistress Potluck.
Pot. Now help, good heaven! 'tis such an uncouth thing
To be a widow out of term-time: I
Do feel such aguish qualms and dumps, and fits,
And shakings still an end! I lately was
A wife, I do confess; but yet I had
No husband; he, alas! was dead to me,
Even when he lived unto the world: I was
A widow, whilst he breath'd. His death did only
Make others know so much; but yet—
Enter Hearsay.
Hear. How now?
So melancholy, sweet?
Pot. How could I choose,
Being thou wert not here? The time is come:
Thou'lt be as good unto me as thy word?
Hear. Nay, hang me, if I e'er recant. You'll take me
Both wind and limb at th' venture, will you not?
Pot. Ay, good chuck, every inch of thee; she were no true woman that would not.
Hear. I must tell you one thing—and yet I'm loth.
Pot. I am thy rib,
Thou must keep nothing from thy rib, good chuck:
Thy yoke-fellow must know all thy secrets.
Hear. Why then, I'll tell you, sweet. [He whispers her.