Abs. Yes, sir, and they stay but for your company.
Lor. And you're cloy'd with't——
[Kicks her, and retires to conceal himself. She weeps.
Phil. And will you still be us'd thus? O madam,
I do confess twice I have batter'd at
The fort I fain would vanquish, and I know
Ye hold out more, 'cause you would seem a soldier,
Than in hate to the assailant. I am again
Inflam'd with those sweet fountains, from whence flow
Such a pair of streams. O strong force of desire!
The quality should quench hath set on fire:
I love you in your sorrows.
Abs. And I sorrow
In nothing but your love. Twice, Philippo,
Have I not beat back the impetuous storm
Of thy incessant rudeness? Wilt thou again
Darken fair honour with dishonesty?
Thou know'st my lord hath long and truly lov'd thee
In the wisdom of a friend; in a fair cause:
He wears his good sword for thee, lays his heart
A lodger in thy bosom, proclaims thee partner
In all he hath but me: O, be not counterfeit!
We all conclude, a diamond with clouds
The goldsmith casts into his dust: and a gentleman
So blemish'd in his honour, blots his name
Out of the herald's book, stands a lost man
In goodness and opinion. O Philippo,
Make me once more so happy to believe
'Tis but a painted passion.
Lor. Most acute witch![121]
Phil. Come, learn of your city wagtail: with one eye
Violently love your husband, and with t'other
Wink at your friend.
Lor. I will not trust you, brother.
Phil. He seeks: will ye not have him find? cries ye out
In his mad fits a strumpet; rails at all women,
Upon no cause, but because you are one:
He gives wound upon wound, and then pours vinegar
Into your bleeding reputation,
Poison'd with bitter calumny. Pox on him!
Pile a reciprocal reward upon him:
Let ballad-mongers crown him with their scorns:
Who buys the buck's-head well deserves the horns.
Demur not on't, but clap them on.
Abs. You are, sir,
Just like the Indian hyssop, prais'd of strangers
For the sweet scent, but hated of the inhabitants
For the injurious quality. Can he love the wife,
That would betray the husband? Hast thou not seen me
Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers
The angry bark to plough thorough her bosom,
And yet is presently so smooth, the eye
Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made?
And cannot this inform, I love him better
In his sour follies, than you in your sweet flatteries?
If Verona hath observ'd any errors in me,
I well may call for grace to amend them,
But will never fall from grace to befriend you.