Cand. The first blow, wife? shall I?
Lod. Let her ha’t:
If she strike hard, in to her, and break her pate.
Cand. A bargain: strike!
Bride. Then guard you from this blow,
For I play all at legs, but ’tis thus low. [Kneels.
Behold, I’m such a cunning fencer grown,
I keep my ground, yet down I will be thrown
With the least blow you give me: I disdain
The wife that is her husband’s sovereign.
She that upon your pillow first did rest,
They say, the breeches wore, which I detest:
The tax which she imposed on you, I abate you;
If me you make your master, I shall hate you.
The world shall judge who offers fairest play;
You win the breeches, but I win the day.
Cand. Thou win’st the day indeed, give me thy hand;
I’ll challenge thee no more: my patient breast
Played thus the rebel, only for a jest:
Here’s the rank rider, that breaks colts; ’tis he
Can tame the mad folks, and curst wives easily.
Bride. Who? your man?
Cand. My man? my master, though his head be bare,
But he’s so courteous, he’ll put off his hair.
Lod. Nay, if your service be so hot a man cannot keep his hair on, I’ll serve you no longer. [Takes off his false hair.
Bride. Is this your schoolmaster?