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And dart not scornefull glances from those eies,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy gouernour.
It blots thy beautie, as frosts doe bite the meades,
Confounds thy fame, as whirlewindes shake faire budds,
And in no sence is meete or amiable.
A woman mou’d, is like a fountaine troubled,
Muddie, ill seeming thicke, bereft of beautie,
And while it is so, none so drie or thirstie
Will daigne to sip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy soueraigne : one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance. Commits his bodie
To painfull labour, both by sea and land :
To watch the night in stormes, the day in cold,
Whilst thou ly'st warme at home, secure and safe,
And craues no other tribute at thy hands,
But loue, fare lookes, and true obedience ;
Too litle payment for so great a debt.
Such dutie as the subject owes the prince,
Euen such a woman oweth to her husband :
And when she is froward, peeuilh, sullen, sower,
And not obedient to his honest will :
What is the but a foule contending rebell,
And gracelesse traitour to her louing lord ?
I am alham'd that women are so simple,
To offer warre, where they should kneele for peace :
Or seeke for rule, supremacie, and sway,
When they are bound to ferue, loue, and obay.
Why are our bodies soft, and weake, and smooth,
Vnapt to toyle, and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our harts.
Should well agree with our externall parts?
G 3

Come,

Come, come, you froward and vnable wormes
My minde hath bin as bigge as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haplie more,
To bandie word for word, and frowne for frowne;
But now I see our launces are but strawes :
Our strength as weake, our weaknesse past compare,
That seeming to be most, which we indeed least are.
Then vale your stomackes, for it is no boote,
And place your hands below your husbands foote :
In token of which dutie, if he please,
My hand is readie may it do him case.

Pet. Why ther's a wench : come on, and kisse me Kate.
Luc. Well go thy wayes old lad for thou shalt ha't.
Vin. 'Tis a good hearing, when children are toward.
Luc. But a harsh hearing, when women are froward.

Pet. Come Kate, wee'l to bed,
We three are married, but you two are sped.
'Twas I won the wager though you hit the white.
And being a winner, God giue you good night.

Exit Petruchio,
Hor. Now go thy wayes thou hast tam'd a curst shrow.
Luc. 'Tis a wonder by your leaue, she will be tam’d so.

F Ι Ν Ι I S.

His True Chronicle HISTORY

OF THE

L I F E and D E A T H of

King Lear, and his Three

Daughters.

WITH THE

Vnfortunate Life of EDGAR,

Sonne and Heire to the Earle of Glocester, and his

sullen and assumed Humour of Tom of Bedlam,

As it was plaid

Before the King's Maiesty at White-Hall, vppon

S. Stephens Night, in Christmas Hollidaies. By his Maiesties Seruants, playing vsu.

ally at the Globe on the Banck-Side.

Printed for NATHANIEL BUTTER, 1608,

There is besides this Edition another of the same Year, which (with that published by Jane Bell in 1655) is but a Copy from the First, and retains even the Printer's Errors.

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I

Kent. Thought the king had more affected the duke of Albeney then Cornewall.

Gloft. It did alwaies seeme so to vs, but now in the diuision of the kingdomes, it appeares not which of the dukes he values most, for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither, can make choise of eithers moytie.

Kent. Is not this your fonne, my lord ?

Gloft. His breeding fir hath beene at my charge. I haue so often blusht to acknowledge him, that now I am braz'd to it.

Kent. I cannot conceive you.

Gloft. Sir, this young fellowes mother could, whereupon she grew round wombed, and had indeed sir a sonne for her cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed, do you smell a fault?

Kent. I cannot with the fault vndone, the issue of it being

so proper.

Gloft. But I haue fir a sonne by order of law, some yeare elder then this, who yet is no deerer in my account, thoglu this knaue came something fawcely into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother faire, there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged, do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund ? Bast. No my lord.

Gloft.

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