Herc. My dear Don!
Zuc. O, Faunus, do’st know our lady?
Herc. Your lady?
Zuc. No, our lady. For the love of charity, incorporate with her; I would have all nations and degrees, all ages, know our lady; for I covet only to be undoubtedly notorious. 230
Herc. For indeed, sir, a repressed fame mounts like camomile[178]—the more trod down, the more it grows. Things known common and undoubted, lose rumour.
Nym. I hope yet your conjectures may err. Your lady keeps full face, unbated roundness, cheerful aspect. Were she so infamously prostitute, her cheek would fall, her colour fade, the spirit of her eye would die.
Zuc. O, young man, such women are like Danaus’ tub; and, indeed, all women are like Achelous,[179] with whom Hercules wrestling, he was no sooner hurl’d to the earth, but he rose up with double vigour. Their fall strengthened them. 242
Enter Dondolo.
Don. News, news, news, news! O, my dear Don,
be raised—be jovial[180]—be triumphant! Ah, my dear Don!