Cand. Well; for she takes you for a very simple fellow.
Lod. And they that are taken for such are commonly the arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.
Cand. I shall not act it; chide, you say, and fret,
And grow impatient: I shall never do’t.
Lod. ’Sblood, cannot you do as all the world does, counterfeit?
Cand. Were I a painter, that should live by drawing
Nothing but pictures of an angry man,
I should not earn my colours; I cannot do’t.
Lod. Remember you’re a linen-draper, and that if you give your wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not therefore a quarter of your yard, not a nail.
Cand. Say I should turn to ice, and nip her love
Now ’tis but in the bud.
Lod. Well, say she’s nipt.
Cand. It will so overcharge her heart with grief,
That like a cannon, when her sighs go off,
She in her duty either will recoil,
Or break in pieces and so die: her death,
By my unkindness might be counted murder.
Lod. Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross her humours. Are not baker’s arms the scales of justice? yet is not their bread light? and may not you, I pray, bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently?