MRS. FRAIL. Oh, see me no more,—for thou wert born amongst rocks, suckled by whales, cradled in a tempest, and whistled to by winds; and thou art come forth with fins and scales, and three rows of teeth, a most outrageous fish of prey.
BEN. O Lord, O Lord, she’s mad, poor young woman: love has turned her senses, her brain is quite overset. Well-a-day, how shall I do to set her to rights?
MRS. FRAIL. No, no, I am not mad, monster; I am wise enough to find you out. Hadst thou the impudence to aspire at being a husband with that stubborn and disobedient temper? You that know not how to submit to a father, presume to have a sufficient stock of duty to undergo a wife? I should have been finely fobbed indeed, very finely fobbed.
BEN. Harkee, forsooth; if so be that you are in your right senses, d’ye see, for ought as I perceive I’m like to be finely fobbed,—if I have got anger here upon your account, and you are tacked about already. What d’ye mean, after all your fair speeches, and stroking my cheeks, and kissing and hugging, what would you sheer off so? Would you, and leave me aground?
MRS. FRAIL. No, I’ll leave you adrift, and go which way you will.
BEN. What, are you false-hearted, then?
MRS. FRAIL. Only the wind’s changed.
BEN. More shame for you,—the wind’s changed? It’s an ill wind blows nobody good,—mayhap I have a good riddance on you, if these be your tricks. What, did you mean all this while to make a fool of me?
MRS. FRAIL. Any fool but a husband.
BEN. Husband! Gad, I would not be your husband if you would have me, now I know your mind: thof you had your weight in gold and jewels, and thof I loved you never so well.