Gond. O 'tis a Cods-head.
Serv. No my Lord, 'tis some strange head, it comes from the Duke.
Gond. Let it be carried to my Mercer, I doe owe him money for silks, stop his mouth with that. [Exit Serv.
Was there ever any man that hated his wife after death but I? and for her sake all women, women that were created only for the preservation of little dogs.
Enter Servant.
Serv. My Lord the Count's sister being overtaken in the streets, with a great hail-storm, is light at your gate, and desires [room] till the storm be overpast.
Gond. Is she a woman?
Serv. I my Lord I think so.
Gond. I have none for her then: bid her get her gone, tell her she is not welcome.
Serv. My Lord, she is now comming up.