Gom. Excuse me noble Sir; oh think me not
So dull a devil, to forget the loss
Of such a matchless wife as I possess'd,
And ever to endure the sight of woman:
Were she the abstract of her sex for form,
The only warehouse of perfection.
Were there no Rose nor Lilly but her Cheek,
No Musick but her tongue, Virtue but hers;
She must not rest near me, my vow is graven,
Here in my heart, irrevocably breath'd
And when I break it.
Ast. This is rudeness Spaniard,
Unseasonably you play the Timonist,
Put on a disposition is not yours,
Which neither fits you, nor becomes you.
Gom. Sir.
Cast. We cannot force you, but we would perswade.
Com. Beseech you Sir, no more, I am resolv'd
To forsake Malta, tread a pilgrimage
To fair Jerusalem, for my Ladies soul,
And will not be diverted.
Mir. You must bear
This Child along w'ye then.
Gom. What Child?
All. How's this?
Mir. Nay then Gomera, thou art injurious,
This Child is thine, and this rejected Lady
Thou hast as often known, as thine own wife,
And this I'll make good on thee, with my sword.
Gom. Thou durst as well blaspheme: if such a scandal—
(I crave the rights due to a Gentleman)
Woman unvail.