COB. What, Tib, Tib, I say.
TIB. How now, what cuckold is that knocks so hard? Oh, husband, is't you?
What's the news?
COB. Nay, you have stunn'd me, i'faith; you have given me a knock on the forehead will stick by me: cuckold? 'Swounds, cuckold?
TIB. Away, you fool, did I know it was you that knock'd?
Come, come, you may call me as bad when you list.
COB. May I? 'swounds, Tib, you are a whore.
TIB. 'Sheart, you lie in your throat.
COB. How, the lie? and in my throat too? do you long to be stabb'd, ha?
TIB. Why, you are no soldier?
COB. Mass, that's true, when was Bobadilla here? that rogue, that slave, that fencing Burgullion? I'll tickle him, i'faith.
TIB. Why, what's the matter?
COB. Oh, he hath basted me rarely, sumptuously: but I have it here will sauce him, oh. the doctor, the honestest old Trojan in all Italy, I do honour the very flea of his dog: a plague on him, he put me once in a villainous filthy fear: marry, it vanish'd away like the smoke of tobacco: but I was smok'd soundly first, I think the devil, and his good angel my guest: well, wife, or Tib, (which you will) get you in, and lock the door, I charge you; let nobody into you, not Bobadilla himself, nor the devil in his likeness; you are a woman; you have flesh and blood enough in you;therefore be not tempted; keep the door shut upon all comers.
TIB. I warrant you there shall nobody enter here without my consent.
COB. Nor with your consent, sweet Tib, and so I leave you.
TIB. It's more than you know, whether you leave me so.
COB. How?
TIB. Why, sweet.
COB. Tut, sweet or sour, thou art a flower.
Keep close thy door, I ask no more.
