Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given out
You are a cuckold.
Cam. Is it given out so?
I had rather such reports as that, my lord,
Should keep within doors.
Fran. Have you any children?
Cam. None, my lord.
Fran. You are the happier:
I 'll tell you a tale.
Cam. Pray, my lord.
Fran. An old tale.
Upon a time Phbus, the god of light,
Or him we call the sun, would need to be married:
The gods gave their consent, and Mercury
Was sent to voice it to the general world.
But what a piteous cry there straight arose
Amongst smiths and felt-makers, brewers and cooks,
Reapers and butter-women, amongst fishmongers,
And thousand other trades, which are annoyed
By his excessive heat! 'twas lamentable.
They came to Jupiter all in a sweat,
And do forbid the banns. A great fat cook
Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove
That Phbus might be gelded; for if now,
When there was but one sun, so many men
Were like to perish by his violent heat,
What should they do if he were married,
And should beget more, and those children
Make fireworks like their father? So say I;
Only I apply it to your wife;
Her issue, should not providence prevent it,
Would make both nature, time, and man repent it.
Mont. Look you, cousin,
Go, change the air for shame; see if your absence
Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello
Is chosen with you joint commissioner,
For the relieving our Italian coast
From pirates.
Marc. I am much honour'd in 't.
Cam. But, sir,
Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sprouted
Greater than those are shed.