Oh, my torment, my torment!

TRU. Nay, if you endure the first half-hour, sir, so tediously, and with this irksomeness; what comfort, or hope, can this fair gentlewoman make to herself hereafter, in the consideration of so many years as are to come ––

MOR. Of my affliction. Good sir, depart, and let her do it alone.

TRU. I have done, sir.

MOR. That cursed barber!

TRU. (Yes faith, a cursed wretch indeed, sir.)

MOR. I have married his cithern, that's common to all men. Some plague, above the plague ––

TRU. (All Egypt's ten plagues.)

MOR. Revenge me on him.

TRU. 'Tis very well, sir. If you laid on a curse or two, more, I'll assure you he'll bear 'em. As, that he may get the pox with seeking to cure it, sir? Or that while he is curling another man's hair, his own may drop off? Or for burning some male-bawd's lock, he may have his brain beat out with the curling- iron?

MOR. No, let the wretch live wretched. May he get the itch, and his shop so lousy as no man dare come at him, nor he come at no man.

TRU. (Aye, and if he would swallow all his balls for pills, let not them purge him.)

MOR. Let his warming pan be ever cold.

TRU. (A perpetual frost underneath it, sir.)

MOR. Let him never hope to see fire again.

TRU. (But in hell, sir.)

MOR. His chairs be always empty, his scissors rust, and his combs mould in their cases.

TRU. Very dreadful that! (And may he lose the invention, sir, of carving lanterns in paper.)

MOR. Let there be no bawd carted that year, to employ a basin of his: but let him be glad to eat his sponge for bread.

TRU. And drink lotium to it, and much good do him.

MOR. Or for want of bread ––

TRU. Eat ear-wax, sir. I'll help you. Or draw his own teeth, and add them to the lute-string.

MOR. No, beat the old ones to powder, and make bread of them.

TRU.