Lor. That men should ever marry! that we should lay our heads,
And take our horns up out of women's laps!
Jov. Be patient, good sir.
Lor. Yes, and go make potguns.
Jas. 'Tis late, and sleep would do you good, my lord.
Lor. Sleep! why, do you think I am mad, sir?
Jas. Not I, my lord.
Lor. Then you do lie, my lord,
For I am mad, horn-mad: I shall be acted
In our theatres of Verona. O, what poison's
Like a false friend, and what plague more ruinous
Than a lascivious wife? they steal our joys,
And fill us with affliction: they leave our names
Hedg'd in with calumny: in their false hearts
Crocodiles breed, who make grief their disguise,
And, in betraying, tears 'stil through their eyes.
O, he that can believe he sleeps secure
In a false friend's oath, or in a bad wife's arms,
Trusts Circe's witchcraft and Calypso's charms.
Omnes. 'Tis late; let's to the Court.
[Exeunt Omnes.