I am out o’ friends, madam

Fool
I am out o' friends, madam, and I hope to have
friends for my wife's sake.
Countess
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

for young Charbon the Puritan and old
Poysam the Papist, howsome'er their hearts are
severed in religion, their heads are both one

Fool
You're shallow, madam, in great friends, for the
knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary
of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives
me leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my
drudge. He that comforts my wife is the cherisher
of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh
and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves
my flesh and blood is my friend. Ergo, he that
kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented
to be what they are, there were no fear in
marriage, for young Charbon the Puritan and old
Poysam the Papist, howsome'er their hearts are
severed in religion, their heads are both one; they
may jowl horns together like any deer i' th' herd.
Countess
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and
calumnious knave?
Fool
A prophet I, madam, and I speak the truth the
next way:  Sings

For I the ballad will repeat
Which men full true shall find:
Your marriage comes by destiny;
Your cuckoo sings by kind.

Countess
Get you gone, sir. I'll talk with you more anon.
Steward
May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen
come to you. Of her I am to speak.
Countess
Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak
with her—Helen, I mean.
Fool Sings

“Was this fair face the cause,” quoth she,
“Why the Grecians sackèd Troy?
Fond done, done fond.
Was this King Priam's joy?”
With that she sighèd as she stood,
With that she sighèd as she stood,
And gave this sentence then:
“Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.”

Countess
What, one good in ten? You corrupt the
song, sirrah.
Fool
One good woman in ten, madam, which is a
purifying o' th' song. Would God would serve the
world so all the year! We'd find no fault with the
tithe-woman if I were the parson. One in ten,
quoth he? An we might have a good woman born
but or every blazing star or at an earthquake,
‘twould mend the lottery well. A man may draw his
heart out ere he pluck one.
Countess
You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!
Fool
That man should be at woman's command, and
yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no Puritan,
yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of
humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am
going, forsooth. The business is for Helen to come hither.
He exits.