Rich. Ha
Q.M. I call thee not
Rich. I cry thee mercie then: for I did thinke,
That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names
Q.M. Why so I did, but look'd for no reply.
Oh let me make the Period to my Curse
Rich. 'Tis done by me and ends in Margaret
Qu. Thus haue you breath'd your Curse against your self
Q.M. Poore painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune,
Why strew'st thou Sugar on that Bottel'd Spider,
Whose deadly Web ensnareth thee about?
Foole, foole, thou whet'st a Knife to kill thy selfe:
The day will come, that thou shalt wish for me,
To helpe thee curse this poysonous Bunch-backt Toade
Hast. False boding Woman, end thy frantick Curse,
Least to thy harme, thou moue our patience
Q.M. Foule shame vpon you, you haue all mou'd mine
Ri. Were you wel seru'd, you would be taught your duty