John. Troth, she makes little preparation; but it may be, she would be wedded, as she would be bedded, privately.
Jar. Bedded, call you it? and she be bedded no better than he'll bed her, she may lie tantalised, and eat wishes.
John. Pox on him! they say he's the arrantest miser: we shall never live a good day with him.
Jar. Well, and she be snipped by threescore and ten, may she live six score and eleven, and repent twelve times a day—that's once an hour. [Exit.
Enter Widow.
Wid. Set meat o' th' board.
John. Yes.
Wid. Why does your fellow grumble so?
John. I do not know. They say you're to marry one that will feed us with horse-plums instead of beef and cabbage.