Shall I but see my love again? Oh, no!
She will not deign to look upon her butcher,
Nor is it fit she should; yet I must venture.
Oh chance, or fortune, or whate'er thou art
That men adore for powerful, hear my cry,
And let me loving live, or losing die. [Exit.
Wife. Is he gone, George?
Cit. Ay, coney.
Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart, by the faith a my body, a has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as 'twere an aspin leaf. Look a my little finger, George, how it shakes: now, in truth, every member of my body is the worse for't.
Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse, he shall not fright thee any more; alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers.