Fran. Plague of Francis! I am neither Frank nor Francis,
But a gentleman of Milan, that even there
Heard of your beauty, which report there guarded
With such a chastity, the glittering'st sin
Held no artillery of power to shake it.
Upon which I resolv'd to try conclusions;
Assum'd this name and fortune, sought this service:
And I will tell ye truly what I guess you.
Dor. You will not ravish me, Francis?
Fran. No; but unravel ye in two lines experience writ lately—
Extremes in virtue are but clouds to vice;
She'll do i' th' dark who is i' th' day too nice.
Dor. Indeed ye do not well to belie me thus.
Fran. Come, I'll lie with thee, wench, and make all well again. Though your confident lord makes use of Crede quod habes, et habes, and holds it impossible for any to be a cuckold, [and] can believe himself none, I would have his lady have more wit, and clap them on.
Dor. And truly, Francis, some women now would do't.
Fran. Who can you choose more convenient to practise with than me, whom he doats on? where shall a man find a friend but at home? so you break one proverb's pate, and give the other a plaster. Is't a match, wench?
Dor. Well, for once it is: but, and ye do any more, indeed I'll tell my husband.
Fran. But when shall this once be? now?