Clown. Now is the devil writing an encomium upon cunning cuckold-makers.
Fran. You have been harsh to her of late, I fear, sir.
Lod. By this hand, I turned not from her all last night. What should a man do?
Jas. Come, this is but a sweet obedient shower,
To bedew the lamented grave of her old father.
Clown. He thinks the devil's dead too.[136]
Dor. But 'tis no matter; were I such a one
As the Count Lorenzo's lady, were I so graceless
To make you wear a pair of wicked horns,
You would make more reckoning of me—— [Weeps.
Lod. Weep again? She'll cry out her eyes, gentlemen.
Clown. No, I warrant you: remember the two lines your honour read last night—
A woman's eye,
'S April's dust, no sooner wet but dry.