Carl. You know I have quitted her for your sake, and now am altogether for—let me see, what lady am I for?
San. Pump, pump, Carlos, for that's to be invented yet.
Carl. Only out of my head a little:—'tis the dead Count's sister; a great fortune since her brother died, but somewhat homely: she has already made some advances to me, or else I lie.
San. And will you say To have and to hold, with an ugly woman?
Carl. Yes, and For better for worse,—that is, for virgin, or for whore; as you will, Sancho, who are listing yourself into the honourable company of cuckolds.
San. What, a hero as I am, to be a cuckold?
Carl. Do not disdain your calling; Julius Cæsar was one before you. The Count has had her by her own confession; so she's a nobleman's dowager, for your comfort.
San. Pugh, she denied it afterwards; that was but a copy of her countenance.
Carl. What if it prove a copy of the Conde's countenance? do you think she had not a bastard by him?
San. That was only a plot betwixt us, to cheat her father.