Joyce. Men you are call'd, but you're a viperous brood,
Whom we in charity take into our bosoms,
And cherish with our heart; for which you sting us.
Staines. Ud's foot! I'll fetch him that wak'd your tongue,
To lay it down again.
[Fetches Will Rash.
W. Rash. Why, how now, man?
Staines. O, relieve me, or I shall lose my hearing!
You have rais'd a fury up into her tongue:
A parliament of women could not make
Such a confused noise as that she utters.
W. Rash. Well, what would you have me do?
Staines. Why, make her hold her tongue.
W. Rash. And what then?
Staines. Why, then, let me alone again.
W. Rash. This is very good, i' faith: first give thee but opportunity, and let thee alone; then make her but speak, and let thee alone; now make her hold her tongue, and then let thee alone By my troth, I think I were best to let thee alone indeed: but come, follow me; the wild cat shall not carry it so away. Walk, walk, as we did.
Joyce. What, have you fetched your champion? what can he do?
Not have you nor himself from out the storm
Of my incensed rage: I will thunder into your ears
The wrongs that you have done an innocent maid:
O, you're a couple of sweet——what shall I call you?
Men you are not; for, if you were,
You would not offer this unto a maid.
Wherein have I deserved it at your hands?