MRS BAR. Good gamester, for your game.
MR BAR. Well, try it out; 'tis all but in the bearing[221].
MRS BAR. Nay, if it come to bearing, she'll be best.
MRS GOUR. Why, you're as good a bearer as the rest.
MRS BAR. Nay, that's not so; you bear one man too many.
MRS GOUR. Better do so than bear not any.
MR BAR. Beshrew me, but my wife's jests grow too bitter;
Plainer speeches for her were more fitter[222]:
Malice lies embowelled in her tongue,
And new hatch'd hate makes every jest a wrong. [Aside.]
MRS GOUR. Look ye, mistress, now I hit ye.
MRS BAR. Why, ay, you never use to miss a blot[223],
Especially when it stands so fair to hit.
MRS GOUR. How mean ye, Mistress Barnes?