MOR. 'Tis kindly spoken, gentle Marian.
_Enter_ CASTILIANO.
But here the doctor comes.
LACY. Then I'll away,
Lest he suspect aught by my being here. [_Exit_.
MOR. Do, and let me alone to close with him.
CAS. May he ne'er speak that makes a woman speak!
She talks now sure for all the time that's pass'd:
Her tongue is like a scarecrow in a tree,
That clatters still with every puff of wind.
I have so haunted her from place to place:
About the hall, from thence into the parlour,
Up to the chamber, down into the garden,
And still she rails, and chafes, and scolds,
As if it were the sessions-day in hell.
Yet will I haunt her with an open mouth,
And never leave her till I force her love me.
MOR. Now, master doctor; what, a match or no?
CAS. A match, quoth you? I think the devil himself
Cannot match her; for, if he could, I should. [_Aside_.]
MOR. Well, be content: 'tis I must work the mean
To make her yield, whether she will or no.
My Lord of Kent is gone hence in a chafe,
And now I purpose that she shall be yours,
Yet to herself unknown; for she shall think
That Musgrave is the man, but it shall be you:
Seem you still discontented, and no more.
Go, Mariana, call thy mistress hither.
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