.

_Enter_ MISTRESS GOURSEY.

Ere she came hither. How now, wife? how is't?
What, are ye yet in charity and love
With Mistress Barnes?

MRS GOUR. With Mistress Barnes! why Mistress[295] Barnes, I pray?

MR GOUR. Because she is your neighbour and--

MRS GOUR. And what?
And a jealous, slandering, spiteful quean she is,
One that would blur my reputation
With her opprobrious malice, if she could;
She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame:
'Tis known that I have lived in honest name
All my lifetime, and been your right true wife.

MR GOUR. I entertain no other thought, my wife,
And my opinion's sound of your behaviour.

MRS GOUR. And my behaviour is as sound as it;
But her ill-speeches seeks to rot my credit,
And eat it with the worm of hate and malice.

MR GOUR. Why, then, preserve it you by patience.

MRS GOUR. By patience! would ye have me shame myself,
And cosen myself to bear her injuries?
Not while her eyes be open, will I yield
A word, a letter, a syllable's value.
But equal and make even her wrongs to me
To her again.

MR GOUR. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.

MRS GOUR. Am I to blame, sir? pray, what letter's this?
[_Snatches the letter_.]

MR GOUR. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife,
Rudely to snatch it from me. Give it me.

MRS GOUR. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it.

MR GOUR. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.

MRS GOUR. No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholar
Good enough to read a letter, sir.

MR GOUR. God's passion, if she know but the contents,
She'll seek to cross this match! she shall not read it. [_Aside_.]
Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me.

MRS GOUR. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.

MR GOUR. What, will you move me to impatience, then?

MRS GOUR. Tut, tell not me of your impatience;
But since you talk, sir, of impatience,
You shall not have the letter, by this light,
Till I have read it; soul, I'll burn it first!

MR GOUR. Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter;
In troth, I shall grow angry, if you do not.

MRS GOUR. Grow to the house-top with your anger, sir!
Ne'er tell me, I care not thus much for it.

MR GOUR. Well, I can bear enough, but not too much.
Come, give it me; 'twere best you be persuaded;
By God--ye make me swear--now God forgive me!--
Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it;
Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.

MRS GOUR. Hear