Enter Albano.
Duke. Is not this Albano, our sometimes courtier?
Fran. No, troth, but Francisco, your always perfumer.
Alb. Lorenzo Celso, our brave Venice Duke, Albano Belletzo, thy merchant, thy soldier, thy courtier, thy slave, thy anything, thy What thou Wilt, kisseth thy noble blood. Do me right, or else I am canonized a cuckold! canonized a cuckold! I am abused!—I am abused!—my wife’s abused!—my clothes abused!—my shape,—my house,—my all,—abused! I am sworn out of myself,—beated out of myself,—baffled,—jeer’d at,—laugh’d at,—barred my own house,—debarr’d my own wife!—whilst others swill my wines,—gormandize my meat, meat,—kiss my wife!—O gods! O gods! O gods! O gods! O gods! 280
Lav. Who is’t? Who is’t?
Cel. Come, sweet, this is your waggery, i’faith; as if you knew him not.
Lav. Yes, I fear I do too well: would I could slide away invisible.
Duke. Assured this is he.
Jaco. My worthy liege, the jest comes only thus.
Now to stop and cross it with mere like deceit:
All being known, the French knight hath disguised
A fiddler, like Albano too, to fright the perfumer:—this is all. 291