'Twill do thee no harm,
Thou canst not be lodged here."
Be merry, boys, some light music, and more wine.
Wife. He's not in earnest, I hope, George, is he?
Cit. What if he be, sweetheart?
Wife. Marry if he be, George, I'll make bold to tell him he's an ingrant old man to use his wife so scurvily.
Cit. What, how does he use her, honey?
Wife. Marry come up, Sir Sauce-box; I think you'll take his part, will you not? Lord, how hot are you grown; you are a fine man, an' you had a fine dog, it becomes you sweetly.
Cit. Nay, prithee Nell, chide not; for as I am an honest man, and a true Christian grocer, I do not like his doings.
Wife. I cry you mercy then, George; you know we are all frail, and full of infirmities. D'ye hear, Master Merry-thought, may I crave a word with you?