M. Merry. Fie! you are foul to blame; this is your own hand.
C. Custance. Might not a woman be proud of such an husband?
M. Merry. Ah, that ye would in a letter show such despite!
R. Roister. O, I would I had him here, the which did it indite!
M. Merry. Why, ye made it yourself, ye told me, by this light!
R. Roister. Yea, I meant I wrote it mine own self yesternight.
C. Custance. I-wis, sir, I would not have sent you such a mock.
R. Roister. Ye may so take it; but I meant it not so, by Cock.
M. Merry. Who can blame this woman to fume, and fret, and rage?