Oni. Pardon your mirth, fair madam, and brush off
This honour'd dust that soils your company;
This thing whom nature carelessly obtruded
Upon the world to teach that pride and folly
Make titular greatness th' envy but of fools,
The wise man's pity.
San. Sir, your words are rude.
Oni. Sure, no, my lord: perhaps in times of yore
They might be construed so, when superstition
Worshipp'd each lord an idol. Now we find,
By sad experience, that you are mere men,
If vice debauch you not to beasts.
San. The place is privileg'd, sir.
Oni. I know it is, and therefore speak thus boldly.
If you grow hot, you have your grots, my lord,
And in your villa you may domineer
O'er th' humble country-gentleman, who stands
Aloof and bare.
Cle. My lord, leave off the combat;
Y' are hardly match'd. And see, the Lord Florentio!
Enter Florentio and Velasco.
The queen attends his coming. Sir, you'll find
A more convenient school to read this lecture.
Oni. But none so beautiful to hear me.
[Exeunt, several ways, Sanmartino, Cleantha, and Oniate.