Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what: get thee to church o’ Thursday, Or never after look me in the face: Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her: Out on her, hilding!

God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl; For here we need it not.