MRS ART. Not speak to me! nor once look towards me!
It is my duty to begin, I know,
And I will break this ice of courtesy.
You are welcome home, sir.
Y. ART. Hark, Master Lusam, if she mock me not! You are welcome home, sir. Am I welcome home? Good faith, I care not if I be or no.
Y. LUS. Thus you misconstrue all things, Master Arthur.
Look, if her true love melt not into tears.
Y. ART. She weeps, but why? that I am come so soon,
To hinder her of some appointed guests,
That in my absence revel in my house:
She weeps to see me in her company,
And, were I absent, she would laugh with joy.
She weeps to make me weary of the house,
Knowing my heart cannot away with grief.
MRS ART. Knew I that mirth would make you love my bed,
I would enforce my heart to be more merry.
Y. ART. Do you not hear? she would enforce her heart!
All mirth is forc'd, that she can make with me.
Y. LUS. O misconceit, how bitter is thy taste!
Sweet Master Arthur, Mistress Arthur too,
Let me entreat you reconcile these jars,
Odious to heaven, and most abhorr'd of men.
MRS ART. You are a stranger, sir; but by your words
You do appear an honest gentleman.
If you profess to be my husband's friend,
Persist in these persuasions, and be judge
With all indifference in these discontents.
Sweet husband, if I be not fair enough
To please your eye, range where you list abroad,
Only, at coming home, speak me but fair:
If you delight to change, change when you please,
So that you will not change your love to me.
If you delight to see me drudge and toil,
I'll be your drudge, because 'tis your delight.
Or if you think me unworthy of the name
Of your chaste wife, I will become your maid,
Your slave, your servant—anything you will,
If for that name of servant and of slave
You will but smile upon me now and then.
Or if, as I well think, you cannot love me,
Love where you list, only but say you love me:
I'll feed on shadows, let the substance go.
Will you deny me such a small request?
What, will you neither love nor flatter me?
O, then I see your hate here doth but wound me,
And with that hate it is your frowns confound me.
Y. LUS. Wonder of women! why, hark you, Master Arthur!
What is your wife, a woman or a saint?
A wife or some bright angel come from heav'n?
Are you not mov'd at this strange spectacle?
This day I have beheld a miracle.
When I attempt this sacred nuptial life,
I beg of heaven to find me such a wife.
Y. ART. Ha, ha! a miracle, a prodigy!
To see a woman weep is as much pity
As to see foxes digg'd out of their holes.
If thou wilt pleasure me, let me see thee less;
Grieve much; they say grief often shortens life:
Come not too near me, till I call thee, wife;
And that will be but seldom. I will tell thee,
How thou shalt win my heart—die suddenly,
And I'll become a lusty widower:
The longer thy life lasts, the more my hate
And loathing still increaseth towards thee.
When I come home and find thee cold as earth,
Then will I love thee: thus thou know'st my mind.
Come, Master Lusam, let us in to dine.