Her gasping wrinkles and fames sepulchres.
Guise. Think you he faines, my lord? what hold you now?
Doe we maligne your wife, or honour you?
Mons. What, stricken dumb! Nay fie, lord, be not danted:
Your case is common; were it ne're so rare,120
Beare it as rarely! Now to laugh were manly.
A worthy man should imitate the weather,
That sings in tempests, and being cleare, is silent.
Gui. Goe home, my lord, and force your wife to write