Corn. How now? what quarter of the Moone has she cut out now? My Lord puts me into a wise office, to be a mad womans keeper! Why, Madam?
Onae. Ha! where is the King, thou slave?
Corn. Let go your hold or I'le fall upon you, as I am a man.
Onae. Thou treacherous caitiffe, where's the King?
Corn. Hee's gone, but no so farre gone as you are.
Onae. Cracke all in sunder, oh you battlements, And grind me into powder!
Corn. What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper 'em too.
Onae. Is there a vengeance Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall, Now let it fall upon me!
Corn. No, there has too much falne upon you already.
Onae. Thou villaine, leave thy hold! Ile follow him:
Like a rais'd ghost I'le haunt him, breake his sleepe,
Fright him as hee's embracing his new Leman
Till want of rest bids him runne mad and dye,
For making oathes Bawds to his perjury.