MRS BAR. Doth he not stand right?
MRS GOUR. It stands between the points.
MRS BAR. And that's my spite.
But yet methinks the dice runs much uneven.
That I throw but deuce-ace and you eleven.
MRS GOUR. And yet you see that I cast down the hill.
MRS BAR. Ay, I beshrew ye, 'tis not with my will.
MRS GOUR. Do ye beshrew me?
MRS BAR. No, I beshrew the dice,
That turn you up more at once than me at twice.
MRS GOUR. Well, you shall see them turn for you anon.
MRS BAR. But I care not for them, when your game is done.
MRS GOUR. My game! what game?