Fred. I cannot.
John. Be it known then,
To all men by these presents, this is she,
She, she, and only she, our curious coxcombs
Were errant two moneths after.
Fred. Who, Constantia?
Thou talk'st of Cocks and Bulls.
John. I talk of wenches,
Of cocks and Hens Don Frederick; this is the Pullet
We two went proud after.
Fred. It cannot be.
John. It shall be;
Sister to Don Petrucchio: I know all man.
Fred. Now I believe.
John. Go to, there has been stirring,
Fumbling with Linnen Frederick.
Fred. 'Tis impossible,
You know her fame was pure as fire.
John. That pure fire
Has melted out her maiden-head: she is crackt:
We have all that hope of our side, boy.