Wid. But true, as she, whose chaste, immaculate soul
Retains the noble stamp of her integrity
With an undefac'd perfection—perchance as these.
Nay, common fame hath scattered, you conceive me,
Because pale Jealousy (Cupid's angry fool)
Was frequent lodger at that sign of Folly—
My husband's soon suspicious heart—that I,
In a close-clouded looseness, should expose him
To that desperate distraction of his fortunes
That sent him to the sea, to nourish her
With your vain hope, that the fame of frequent suitors
Was but a mask of loose 'scapes: like men at lotteries,
You thought to put in for one, sir; but, believe me,
You have drawn a blank.
Ran. By cat, hur look fery blank indeed.
Wid. O my beloved husband!
However in thy life thy jealousy
Sent thee so far to find death, I will be
Married to nothing but thy memory!
Alex. But shall the pies be spoiled then?
Jar. Let her alone, if her husband do not know this——
Omnes. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Blood. Her husband, I told you, was a madman.
Anc. Why, her husband's dead, sir.
Jar. He is not dead, sir; he had it spread o' purpose; he is in England, and in your house; and look, do you not see him?