Herod. ’Fore Heaven, I love thee to the heart! Well, I may praise God for my brother’s weakness, for I assure thee the land shall descend to me, my little Fawn. 201
Herc. To thee, my little Herod? O, my rare rascal, I do find more and more in thee to wonder at, for thou art, indeed—if I prosper, thou shalt know what. Who’s this?[175]
Enter Don Zuccone.
Herod. What! know you not Don Zuccone, the only desperately railing lord[176] at’s lady that ever was confidently melancholy—that egregious idiot, that husband of the most witty, fair (and be it spoken with many men’s true grief), most chaste Lady Zoya! But we have entered into a confederacy of afflicting him. 211
Herc. Plots ha’ you laid, inductions dangerous?[177]
Nym. A quiet bosom to my sweet Don. Are you going to visit your lady?
Zuc. What o’clock is’t? Is it past three?
Herod. Past four, I assure you, sweet Don.
Zuc. O, then, I may be admitted. Her afternoon’s private nap is taken. I shall take her napping. I hear there’s one jealous that I lie with my own wife, and begins to withdraw his hand. I protest, I vow,—and
you will, on my knees I’ll take my sacrament on it,—I lay not with her this four years—this four years; let her not be turn’d upon me, I beseech you. 223