Ware. You, sir, have no cause.
Sea. Not I! Ask Mistress Scruple. I have lost
My daughter, sir: she's stol'n. Then, sir, I have
A spendthrift to my son.
Ware. These are felicities
Compar'd to me. You have not match'd a whore, sir,
Nor lost two ships at sea.
Sea. Nor you, I hope?
Ware. Truth is, you are my friends; I am abus'd,
Grossly fetch'd over. I have match'd a stew,
The notedst woman o' th' town.
Mis. Sea. Indeed, I heard
She was a chambermaid.
Mis. Hol. And they by their place
Do wait upon the lady, but belong
Unto the lord.
Sea. But is this true?
Ware. Here was
My nephew just now, and one Roseclap, who tell me
She has three children living; one dapple-grey,
Half Moor, half English: knows as many men
As she that sinned by th' calendar, and divided
The nights o' th' year with several men.
Sea. Bless me, goodness!