Throat. Why, that's his occupation: he will cheat
In a cloak lin'd with velvet: he will prate
Faster than five barbers and a tailor;
Lie faster than ten city occupiers[368]
Or cunning tradesmen: goes a-trust
In every tavern, where h' has spent a fagot;
Swears love to every whore, squires bawds,
And takes up houses for them as their husband:
He is a man I love, and have done much
To bring him to preferment.
Fran. Is there no trust, no honesty in men?
Throat. Faith, some there is,
And 'tis all in the hands of us lawyers
And women: and those women which have it,
Keep their honesty so close, that not one
Amongst a hundred is perceiv'd to have it.
Fran. Good sir, may I not by law forsake him,
And wed another, though my word be pass'd
To be his wife?
Throat. O, questionless, you may!
You have many precedents and bookcases for't:
Nay, though you were married by a bookcase
Of Millesimo sexcentessimo, &c.
You may forsake your husband, and wed another,
Provided that some fault be in the husband,
As none of them are clear.
Fran. I am resolv'd.
I will not wed him, though I beg my bread.
Throat. All that I have is yours; and were I worthy
To be your husband———
Fran. I thank you, sir;
I will rather wed a most perfidious Red-shanks
A noted Jew, or some mechanic slave,
Than let him joy my sheets.
Throat. He comes, he comes.
Enter W. Small-Shanks, Boutcher, T. Small-Shanks, Beard.