Lor. Dost hear, Abstemia?
O, shall we part for ever, when a price
So poor might be our freedom?
Abs. Now, goodness guard ye!
Where learn't you, sir, this language?
Lor. Of true love.
You did but now profess that you would die
To save my life; and now, like a forward chapman,
Catch'd at thy word, thou givest back, asham'd
To stand this easy proffer.
Abs. Could you live,
And know yourself a cuckold?
Ant. What a question's that!
Many men cannot live without the knowledge.
How can ye tell
Whether she seems thus to respect your honour,
But to stay till the law has chok'd you?
It may be then she will do't with less entreaty.
Lor. Ay, there, there 'tis.
Abs. 'Tis your old fit of jealousy so judges.
A foul devil talks within him.
Lor. O, the art,
The wondrous art of woman! ye would do it daintily;
You would juggle me to death; you would persuade me
I should die nobly to preserve your honour;
That (dead) ignobly you might prove dishonourable,
Forget me in a day, and wed another.
Abs. Why then would I have died for you?
Ant. That was but a proffer,
That, dying, you might idolise her love:
'Twould have put her off the better.