Dor. 'Tis my misfortune still to suffer, sir.
Lod. Did you not see one slip out of a cloak-bag i' th' fashion of a flitch of bacon, and run under the table amongst the hogs?
Ven. He's mad, he's mad.
Clown. Ay, ay, a tithe-pig: 'twas overlaid last night, and he speaks nonsense all the day after——
Dor. Shall I, sir, suffer this—in mine own house too?
Clown. I'd scratch out his eyes first.
Ver. Since, lady, you and your man Francisco
Are the two injur'd persons, here disrobe
This irregular son of his religious mother,
Expose him to th' apparent blush of shame,
And tear those holy weeds off.
Fran. Now you, my frantic brother,
Had you not been better spar'd your breath?
Dor. And ye keep counsel, sir, no better,
We'll ease you of your orders.
Clown. Nay, let me have a hand in't: I'll tear the coat with more zeal than a puritan would tear a surplice.