Herc. My Don.
Zuc. With child!—by the pleasure of generation, I proclaim I lay not with her this——Give us patience!—give us patience!
Herc. Why? my lord, ’tis nothing to wear a forker.[184]
Zuc. Heaven and earth!
Herc. All things under the moon are subject to their mistress’ grace. Horns! Lend me your ring, my Don—I’ll put it on my finger. Now ’tis on yours again. Why is the gold now e’er the worse in lustre or fitness? 293
Zuc. Am I used thus?
Herc. Ay, my lord, true. Nay, to be—(look ye, mark ye)—to be used like a dead ox—to have your own hide
pluck’d on—to be drawn on with your own horn,—to have the lordship of your father, the honour of your ancestors, maugre your beard, to descend to the base lust of some groom of your stable, or the page of your chamber! 301
Zuc. O, Phalaris! thy bull!
Sir Amor. Good Don, ha’ patience! you are not the only cuckold! I would now be separated.