ANS. Mistress, this gentleman hath news to tell ye,
And as you like of it, so think of me.
FUL. Your husband hath already got a wife;
A huffing wench, i' faith, whose ruffling silks
Make with their motion music unto love,
And you are quite forgotten.
ANS. I have sworn
To move this my unchaste demand no more. [Aside.]
FUL. When doth your colour change? When do your eyes
Sparkle with fire to revenge these wrongs?
When doth your tongue break into rage and wrath,
Against that scum of manhood, your vile husband?'
He first misus'd you.
ANS. And yet can you love him?
FUL. He left your chaste bed, to defile the bed
Of sacred marriage with a courtesan.
ANS. Yet can you love him?
FUL. And, not content with this,
Abus'd your honest name with sland'rous words,
And fill'd your hush'd house with unquietness.
ANS. And can you love him yet?
FUL. Nay, did he not
With his rude fingers dash you on the face,
And double-dye your coral lips with blood?
Hath he not torn those gold wires from your head,
Wherewith Apollo would have strung his harp,
And kept them to play music to the gods?
Hath he not beat you, and with his rude fists
Upon that crimson temperature of your cheeks
Laid a lead colour with his boist'rous blows?