1st Pren. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—a scurvy trick.
Cand. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there tells me she is not well.
Guests. Step to her, step to her.
Lod. A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters.
Cand. How, hang her in her garters?
Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to’t.
Cand. What would you have me do, sir?
Lod. What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already; you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning be crooked to his wife; be you like an orange to her, let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?
Cand. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.