Lod. Well said!
Bride. Then fast, then you may choose.
Cand. You know at table
What tricks you played, swaggered, broke glasses, fie!
Fie, fie, fie! and now before my prentice here,
You make an ass of me, thou—what shall I call thee?
Bride. Even what you will.
Lod. Call her arrant whore.
Cand. Oh fie, by no means! then she’ll call me cuckold.
Sirrah, go look to th’ shop. How does this show?
Lod. Excellent well—I’ll go look to the shop, sir.
Fine cambrics, lawns; what do you lack? [Goes into the shop.
Cand. A curst cow’s milk I ha’ drunk once before,
And ’twas so rank in taste, I’ll drink no more.
Wife, I’ll tame you.
Bride. You may, sir, if you can,
But at a wrestling I have seen a fellow
Limbed like an ox, thrown by a little man.