He got this cold with sitting up late and singing catches with clothworkers.

MOR. No more. I thank him.

PAR. God keep your worship, and give you much joy with your fair spouse. He coughs. (umh, umh).

MOR. Oh, oh, stay, Cutbeard! Let him give me five shillings of my money back. As it is bounty to reward benefits, so is it equity to mulct injuries. I will have it. What says he?

CUT. He cannot change it, sir.

MOR. It must be changed.

CUT Aside to Parson. Cough again.

MOR. What says he?

CUT. He will cough out the rest, sir.

PAR Again. (umh, umh, umh.)

MOR. Away, away with him, stop his mouth, away, I forgive it. ––

 

Exeunt Parson, Cutbeard

 

EPI. Fie, Master Morose, that you will use this violence to a man of the church.

MOR. How!

EPI. It does not become your gravity or breeding (as you pretend in court) to have offered this outrage on a waterman, or any more boisterous creature, much less on a man of his civil coat.

MOR. You can speak then!

EPI. Yes, sir.

MOR. Speak out, I mean.

EPI. Aye, sir. Why, did you think you had married a statue? Or a motion only? One of the French puppets, with the eyes turned with a wire? Or some innocent out of the hospital, that would stand with her hands thus, and a plaice mouth, and look upon you?

MOR. Oh immodesty! A manifest woman! What Cutbeard?

EPI. Nay, never quarrel with Cutbeard, sir, it is too late now. I confess, it doth bate somewhat of the modesty I had, when I writ simply maid: but I hope I shall make it a stock still competent to the estate and dignity of your wife.

MOR. She can talk!

EPI.