Mons. Do'st thou not dreame, wench?
Per. I sweare he is the man.
Mons. The devill he is, and thy lady his dam!
Why this was the happiest shot that ever flewe;[215]
the just plague of hypocrisie level'd it. Oh, the
infinite regions betwixt a womans tongue and
her heart! is this our Goddesse of chastity? I
thought I could not be so sleighted, if she had
not her fraught besides, and therefore plotted this[220]
with her woman, never dreaming of D'Amboys.