PHIL. Over the meads, half-way to Milton, mother,
To bear my friend, Frank Goursey, company.
MRS BAR. Where's your blue coat[255], your sword and buckler, sir?
Get you such like habit for a serving-man,
If you will wait upon the brat of Goursey.
PHIL. Mother, that you are mov'd, this makes me wonder;
When I departed, I did leave ye friends:
What undigested jar hath since betided?
MRS BAR. Such as almost doth choke thy mother, boy,
And stifles her with the conceit of it;
I am abus'd, my son, by Goursey's wife.
PHIL. By Mistress Goursey.
MRS BAR. Mistress Flirt—yea[256], foul strumpet,
Light-a-love, short-heels! Mistress Goursey
Call her again, and thou wert better no.
PHIL. O my dear mother, have some patience!
MRS BAR. Ay, sir, have patience, and see your father
To rifle up the treasure of my love,
And play the spendthrift upon such an harlot!
This same will make me have patience, will it not?
PHIL. This same is women's most impatience:
Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say,
That you have found my father temperate,
And ever free from such affections.
MRS BAR. Ay, till[257] my too much love did glut his thoughts,
And make him seek for change.