O. ART.  Nay, pray you, Master Lusam, say not so;
There was great hope, though they were match’d but young,
Their virtues would have made them sympathise,
And live together like two quiet saints.

O. LUS.  You say true, there was great hope, indeed,
They would have liv’d like saints; but where’s the fault?

O. ART.  If fame be true, the most fault’s in my son.

O. LUS.  You say true, Master Arthur, ’tis so indeed.

O. ART.  Nay, sir, I do not altogether excuse
Your daughter; many lay the blame on her.

O. LUS.  Ah! say you so? by the mass, ’tis like enough,
For from her childhood she hath been a shrew.

O. ART.  A shrew? you wrong her; all the town admires her
For mildness, chasteness, and humility.

O. LUS.  ’Fore God, you say well, she is so indeed;
The city doth admire her for these virtues.

O. ART.  O, sir, you praise your child too palpably;
She’s mild and chaste, but not admir’d so much.

O. LUS.  Ay, so I say—­I did not mean admir’d.

O. ART.  Yes, if a man do well consider her,
Your daughter is the wonder of her sex.

O. LUS.  Are you advis’d of that?  I cannot tell,
What ’tis you call the wonder of her sex,
But she is—­is she?—­ay, indeed, she is.

O. ART.  What is she?

O. LUS.  Even what you will—­you know best what she is.

ANS.  Yon is her husband:  let us leave this talk:[3]
How full are bad thoughts of suspicion;
I love, but loathe myself for loving so,
Yet cannot change my disposition.

FUL. Medice, cura teipsum.

ANS. Hei mihi! quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.

[Exeunt ANSELM and FULLER.

Y. ART.  All your persuasions are to no effect,
Never allege her virtues nor her beauty,
My settled unkindness hath begot
A resolution to be unkind still,
My ranging pleasures love variety.

Y. LUS.  O, too unkind unto so kind a wife,
Too virtueless to one so virtuous,
And too unchaste unto so chaste a matron.

Y. ART.  But soft, sir, see where my two fathers are
Busily talking; let us shrink aside,
For if they see me, they are bent to chide.

[Exeunt Y. ARTHUR and Y. LUSAM.

O. ART.  I think ’tis best to go straight to the house,
And make them friends again; what think ye, sir?

O. LUS.  I think so too.

O. ART.  Now I remember, too, that’s not so good: 
For divers reasons, I think best stay here,
And leave them to their wrangling—­what think you?

O. LUS.  I think so too.

O. ART.  Nay, we will go, that’s certain.

O. LUS.  Ay, ’tis best, ’tis best—­
In sooth, there’s no way but to go.

O. ART.  Yet if our going should breed more unrest,
More discord, more dissension, more debate,
More wrangling where there is enough already? 
’Twere better stay than go.