Ware. I am married——
Dor. Then,
For your abilities, should twelve good women
Sit on these reverend locks, and on your heat
And natural appetite, they would just find you
As youthful as a coffin, and as hot
As the sultry winter that froze o'er the Thames—
They say the hard time did begin from you.
Ware. Good, I am made the curse of watermen.
Dor. Your humours come frost from you, and your nose
Hath icicles in June.
Ware. Assist me, patience!
Why, hear you, mistress—you that have a fever
And dog-days in your blood—if you knew this,
Why did you marry me?
Dor. Ha, ha, ha!
Ware. She laughs.
Dor. That your experienc'd age,[258] that hath felt springs
And falls this forty years, should be so dull
To think I have not them that shall supply
Your cold defects!
Ware. You have your servants, then,
And I am fork'd? hum!
Dor. Do you think
A woman young, high in her blood——