_Fain would I wake you, Sweet, but fear_ _I should invite you to worse chear;_ _In your dreams you cannot fare_ _Meaner than Musick; no compare;_ _None of your slumbers are compil'd_ _Under the pleasure makes a Child;_ _Your day-delights, so well compact,_ _That what you think, turns all to act:_ _I'd wish my life no better play,_ _Your dream by night, your thought by day._ _Wake gently, wake,_ _Part softly from your dreams;_ _The morning flies_ _To your fair eyes,_ _To take her special beams._
_Sir Gr._ I hear her up, here Master _Voice_, Pay you the Instruments, save what you can,
To keep you when you're crackt. [_Exit Boy._
_Neece._ Who should this be? That I'm so much beholding to, for sweetness? Pray Heaven it happens right.
_Neece._ An ill day and a thousand come upon thee.
_Sir Gr._ 'Light, that's six hundred more than any Almanack has.
_Neece._ Comes it from thee? it is the mangiest Musick That ever woman heard.
_Sir Gr._ Nay, say not so, Lady, There's not an itch about 'em.
_Neece._ I could curse My attentive powers, for giving entrance to't; There is no boldness like the impudence That's lockt in a fools bloud, how durst you do this? In conscience I abus'd you as sufficiently As woman could a man; insatiate Coxcomb, The mocks and spiteful language I have given thee, Would o' my life ha' serv'd ten reasonable men, And rise contented too, and left enough for their friends. Thou glutton at abuses, never satisfied? I am perswaded thou devour'st more flouts Than all thy body's worth, and still a hungred! A mischief of that maw, prethee seek elsewhere, Introth I am weary of abusing thee; Get thee a fresh Mistriss, thou'st make work enough; I do not think there's scorn enough in Town To serve thy turn, take the Court-Ladies in, And all their Women to 'em, that exceed 'em.
_Neece._ Oh unsatiable! Dost thou count all this but an earnest yet? I'd thought I'd paid thee all the whole sum, trust me; Thou'lt begger my derision utterly If thou stay'st longer, I shall want a laugh: If I knew where to borrow a contempt Would hold thee tack, stay and be hang'd, thou shouldst then: But thou'st no conscience now to extort hate from me, When one has spent all she can make upon thee; Must I begin to pay thee hire again? After I have rid thee twice? faith 'tis unreasonable.