And. And to leave these all,
And wed a wand’ring knight, Sir Laverdure,
A God knows what!
Ran. Brother, she shall not. Shall our blood be mongrell’d
With the corruption of a straggling French?
And. Saint Mark, she shall not. 220
She[419] shall not, brother, by our father’s soul.
Ran. Good day.
Jaco. Wish me good day? It stands in idle stead;
My Celia’s lost! all my good days are dead!
[The cornets sound a flourish.
Hark: Lorenzo Celso, the loose Venice Duke
Is going to bed; ’tis now a forward morn,
For he take rest. O strange transformèd sight,
When princes make night day, the day their night!
And. Come, we’ll petition him.
Jaco. Away! Away!
He scorns all plaints; makes jest of serious suit. 230
Ran. Fall out as ’twill, I am resolved to do’t.