MRS BAR. Nor I, but that I think she'll play me false.
MR GOUR. I'll see she shall not.
MRS BAR. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see;
You, of all men, shall not mark her hand;
She hath such close conveyance in her play.
MR GOUR. Is she so cunning grown? Come, come, let's see.
MRS GOUR. Yea, Mistress Barnes, will ye not house your jests,
But let them roam abroad so carelessly?
Faith, if your jealous tongue utter another,
I'll cross ye with a jest, and ye were my mother.—
Come, shall we play? [Aside.]
MRS BAR. Ay, what shall we play a game?
MRS GOUR. A pound a game.
MR GOUR. How, wife?
MRS GOUR. Faith, husband, not a farthing less.
MR GOUR. It is too much; a shilling were good game.