Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens; nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else. I ha’ read Albertus Magnus, and Aristotle’s Problems.
Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow hand[128] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward: I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent, the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.
Fus. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold.
Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.
Fus. The honester citizen he; then make him drunk and cut off his beard.
Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald[129] hair. No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret.
Fus. As your mid-wife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon.
Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s Street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave man: instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.
Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister.
Vio. O, by any means, to show your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.