O. ART. Nay, pray you, Master Lusam, say not so;
There was great hope, though they were match'd but young,
Their virtues would have made them sympathise,
And live together like two quiet saints.
O. LUS. You say true, there was great hope, indeed,
They would have liv'd like saints; but where's the fault?
O. ART. If fame be true, the most fault's in my son.
O. LUS. You say true, Master Arthur, 'tis so indeed.
O. ART. Nay, sir, I do not altogether excuse
Your daughter; many lay the blame on her.
O. LUS. Ah! say you so? by the mass, 'tis like enough,
For from her childhood she hath been a shrew.
O. ART. A shrew? you wrong her; all the town admires her
For mildness, chasteness, and humility.
O. LUS. 'Fore God, you say well, she is so indeed;
The city doth admire her for these virtues.
O. ART. O, sir, you praise your child too palpably;
She's mild and chaste, but not admir'd so much.
O. LUS. Ay, so I say—I did not mean admir'd.