Ver. Pray, let us hear your dream.
Dor. Bless me! I am e'en asham'd to tell it: but 'tis no matter, chick,
A dream is a dream, and this it was.
Methought, sweet husband, Francis lay with me.
Lod. The best friend still at home, Francisco.
Could the devil, sir, perform a penance neater,
And save his credit better? On, chick; a dream is but a dream.
Dor. Methought I prov'd with child, sweetheart.
Lod. Ay, bird?
Fran. Pox of these dreams!
Dor. Methought I was brought to bed; and one day sitting
I' th' gallery, where your masquing-suits and vizards hang,
Having the child, methought, upon my knee,
Who should come thither, as to play at foils,
But thou, sweetheart, and Francis?
Lod. Frank and I! Does your grace mark that?
Ver. I do, and wonder at her neat conveyance on't.
Dor. Ye had not play'd three veneys,[159] but methought
He hit thee such a blow upon the forehead,
It swell'd so, that thou couldst not see.