Mar. By my troth's but a night-gowne in respect of yours, cloth a gold and cuts, and lac'd with siluer, set with pearles, downe sleeues, side sleeues, and skirts, round vnderborn with a blewish tinsel, but for a fine queint gracefull and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't
Hero. God giue mee ioy to weare it, for my heart is
exceeding heauy
Marga. 'Twill be heauier soone, by the waight of a
man
Hero. Fie vpon thee, art not asham'd? Marg. Of what Lady? of speaking honourably? is not marriage honourable in a beggar? is not your Lord honourable without marriage? I thinke you would haue me say, sauing your reuerence a husband: and bad thinking doe not wrest true speaking, Ile offend no body, is there any harme in the heauier for a husband? none I thinke, and it be the right husband, and the right wife, otherwise 'tis light and not heauy, aske my Lady Beatrice else, here she comes. Enter Beatrice.
Hero. Good morrow Coze
Beat. Good morrow sweet Hero
Hero. Why how now? do you speake in the sick tune?
Beat. I am out of all other tune, me thinkes
Mar. Claps into Light a loue, (that goes without a
burden,) do you sing it and Ile dance it
Beat. Ye Light aloue with your heeles, then if your husband haue stables enough, you'll looke he shall lacke no barnes
Mar. O illegitimate construction! I scorne that with
my heeles