ow?--
[ENTER SERVANTS.]
Bar up my doors, you varlets!

EPI: He is a varlet that stirs to such an office. Let them stand
open. I would see him that dares move his eyes toward it. Shall I
have a barricado made against my friends, to be barr'd of any
pleasure they can bring in to me with their honourable
visitation?

[EXEUNT SER.]

MOR: O Amazonian impudence!

TRUE: Nay, faith, in this, sir, she speaks but reason: and,
methinks, is more continent than you. Would you go to bed so
presently, sir, afore noon? a man of your head and hair should
owe more to that reverend ceremony, and not mount the marriage-bed
like a town-bull, or a mountain-goat; but stay the due season; and
ascend it then with religion and fear. Those delights are to be
steeped in the humour and silence of the night; and give the day
to other open pleasures, and jollities of feasting, of music, of
revels, of discourse: we'll have all, sir, that may make your
Hymen high and happy.

MOR: O, my torment, my torment!

TRUE: Nay, if you endure the first half hour, sir, so tediously,
and with this irksomness; 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.

TRUE: I have done, sir.

MOR: That cursed barber.

TRUE: Yes, faith, a cursed wretch indeed, sir.

MOR: I have married his cittern, that's common to all men. Some
plague above the plague--

TRUE: All Egypt's ten plagues.

MOR: Revenge me on him!

TRUE: 'Tis very well, sir. If you laid on a curse or two more,
I'll assure you he'll bear them. 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!

TRUE: Ay, and if he would swallow all his balls for pills, let not
them purge him.

MOR: Let his warming pan be ever cold.

TRUE: A perpetual frost underneath it, sir.

MOR: Let him never hope to see fire again.

TRUE: But in hell, sir.

MOR: His chairs be always empty, his scissors rust, and his combs
mould in