Clown. He must be branded! if the whoremaster be burnt, what shall become of the procurer?
Ver. You, madam, in that you have cosen'd sanctity,
To promise her the vows you never paid,
You shall unto the monastery of matrons,
And spend your days reclusive: for we conceive it
Her greatest plague, who her days in lust hath pass'd
And soil'd, against[162] her will to be kept chaste.
Dor. Your doom is just: no sentence can be given
Too hard for her plays fast and loose[163] with Heaven.
Lod. I will buss thee, and bid fair weather after thee. But for you, sirrah——
Clown. Nay, sir, 'tis but crede quod habes, et habes, at most; believe I have a halter, and I have one.
Ver. You, sirrah, we are possess'd, were their pander.
Clown. I brought but flesh to flesh, sir, and your grace does as much when you bring your meat to your mouth.
Ver. You, sirrah, at a cart's tail shall be whipped through the city.
Clown. There's my dream out already! but, since there is no remedy but that whipping-cheer must close up my stomach, I would request a note from your grace to the carman, to entreat him to drive apace; I shall never endure it else.
Ver. I hope, Count Lodowick, we have satisfied ye.