John. Where's thy Bottle?
Land. Here, I beseech ye, Son—
John. For I know the Devil
Cannot assume that shape.
Fred. 'Tis she, John, certain—
John. A hogs pox o' your mouldy chaps, what makes you
Tumbling and juggling here?
Land. I am quit now, Seignior,
For all the pranks you plaid, and railings at me,
For to tell true, out of a trick I put
Upon your high behaviours, which was a lie,
But then it serv'd my turn, I drew the Lady
Unto my Kinsman's here, only to torture
Your Don-ships for a day or two; and secure her
Out of all thoughts of danger; here she comes now.
Enter Vecchio, and Constantia.
Duke. May I yet speak?
Vec. Yes, and embrace her too,
For one that loves you dearer—
Duke. O my Sweetest.