Richard. Torment! sweet saint, recall that killing word,
And substitute adore.
Lady A.Indeed! I've heard
Old gossips say he's but a silly calf,
Who fondly thinks to catch old birds with chaff.
Look on that pattern of thy gentle love! (pointing off r.)
Richard. I do, and weep, my pretty turtle-dove.
And yet methinks I can excuse myself.
Lady A. Wholesale butcher!
Richard.Thou dost abuse thyself!
(Rapidly, with great passion) Thou art the cause of all my peccadilloes—
Thy beauty (like Battersean billows,
Which market barges smash to shivereens,
And cheat the town of sparrow grass and greens),
Thy fatal beauty, for whose dear sake,
Of all the world I'd Epping sausage make!
Or kill myself—(if thou shouldst wish me die)
One hour on that soft breast to lie.
Lady A. Nonsense! I don't believe you! get along!
(hitting him playfully with her fan.).
Richard. I know, dear love, I've done thee grievous wrong!
But though by me thy husband's death was done,
'Twas but to help thee to a better one.
Lady A. His better does not wear a head.
Richard. He lives who loves thee better.