Dor. O good sir, I crave your pardon!
Lod. And what say you, Francis?
Fran. You have run best, sir: vain 'tis to defend;
Craft sets forth swift, but still fails in the end.
Lod. You brought him to her chamber, Pambo.
Clown. Good my lord, I was merely inveigled to't.
Lod. I have nothing to do with ye; I take no notice of ye; I have played my part off to th' life, and your grace promised to perform yours.
Ver. And publicly we will still raise their fame:
Who e'er knew private sin 'scape public shame?
You, sir, that do appear a gentleman,
Yet are within slave to dishonest passions,
You shall through Verona ride upon an ass
With your face towards his back-part, and in
Your hand his tail 'stead of a bridle.
Clown. Snails! upon an ass? an't 'ad been upon a horse, it had been worthy, gramercy.
Ver. Peace, sirrah:
After that, you shall be branded in the forehead,
And after banish'd. Away with him!
Fran. Lust is still
Like a midnight meal: after our violent drinkings,
'Tis swallow'd greedily; but, the course being kept,
We are sicker when we wake than ere we slept. [Exit.