Which makes it lunatique, beyond all cure.
Conceive not I am so stupid but I ayme
Whereto your favours tend: but he’s a foole
That (being a cold) would thrust his hands i’ th’ fire
To warme them.
Duch. So, now the ground’s broake,
You may discover what a wealthy mine
I make you lord of.
Ant. Oh my unworthiness!
Duch. You were ill to sell your selfe: