Clown. Is that a question to ask now? would you would grope out the bed; for I sleep in my talk, I am sure of that.
[Lodvico coughs.
Fran. We are lost for ever! did he not cough?
Clown. 'Tis nothing but the last cup comes up in stewed broth. If ever you make true whore-master, I'll be bound to resign my place up to my lord's page; sea-sick, before you come to th' salt water! let me go in your stead.
Fran. No, I'll venture, stood a gulf between,
Belching up a tempest. O valiant lust!
How resolute thou go'st to acts unjust!
Pambo, good night.
Desire drowns fear in presuppos'd delight.
Clown. Turn of your left hand, 'twill lead you to the devil—to my lady, I should say, presently. [Exit.
Fran. Let me [see]:
Four steps on the left hand. I have the bed,
And on this side she lies. 'Sfoot, there's a beard!
But all's well yet, she lies on this side, sure.
I have her: 'tis her hand, I know the touch.
It melts me into passion. I have much ado
To contain my wild desires. As the wind strains
In caverns lock'd, so through my big-swoll'n veins
My blood cuts capers.
Dor. Who's there?
Fran. 'Tis I.
Dor. Francis!