O’ the body of me, husband Hob, what, mean you to fight?
For the passion of God, no more blows smite.
Neighbours and friends so long, and now to fall out!
What, in your age to seem so stout?
If I had not parted ye, one had kill’d another.
Lob.
I had not cared, I swear by God’s mother.
Marian.
Shake hands again at the request of me;
As ye have been friends, so friends still be.