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.

O. LUS. 'Fore God, 'tis true;
Our going may, perhaps, breed more debate,
And then we may too late wish we had stay'd;
And therefore, if you will be rul'd by me,
We will not go, that's flat: nay, if we love
Our credits or our quiets, let's not go.

O. ART. But if we love
Their credits or their quiets, we must go,
And reconcile them to their former love;
Where there is strife betwixt a man and wife 'tis hell,
And mutual love may be compared to heaven,
For then their souls and spirits are at peace.
Come, Master Lusam, now 'tis dinner-time;
When we have dined, the first work we will make,
Is to decide their jars for pity's sake.

O. LUS. Well fare a good heart! yet are you advis'd?
Go, said you, Master Arthur? I will run
To end these broils, that discord hath begun.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II.

_Young Arthur's House_.

_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR _and_ PIPKIN.

MRS ART. Come hither, Pipkin.
How chance you tread so softly?

PIP. For fear of breaking, mistress.

MRS ART.