Sce. I would you had her,
With all her Oracles, and Miracles,
She were fitter for your turn.
Ant. Would I had, Sceva,
With all her faults too: let me alone to mend 'em,
O'that condition I made thee mine heir.
Sce. I had rather have your black horse, than your harlots.
Dol. Cæsar writes Sonnetts now, the sound of war
Is grown too boystrous for his mouth: he sighs too.
Sce. And learns to fiddle most melodiously,