Æmi. Why, the supposed boy you seem to be jealous of, 'tis your own leman,[354] your own dear morsel: I have searched out the mystery. Husbands must do ill, and wives must bear the reproach! A fine inversion!
Lor. I am more in a maze, more involv'd in a labyrinth, than before.
Æmi. You were best plead innocence too, 'tis your safest refuge: but I did not think a man of your age and beard had been so lascivious to keep a disguised callet[355] under my nose; a base cockatrice[356] in page's apparel to wait upon you, and rob me of my due benevolence! There's no law nor equity to warrant this.
Lor. Why, do I any such thing?
Æmi. Pray, what else is the boy, but your own hermaphrodite? a female siren in a male outside! Alas! had I intended what you suspect and accuse me for, I had been more wary, more private in the carriage, I assure you.
Lor. Why, is that boy otherwise than he appears to be?
Enter Lionel.
Æmi. 'Tis a thing will be quickly search'd out. Your secret bawdry and the murder of my good name will not long lie hid, I warrant you.
Lio. Now is my cue to second her. [Aside.
Lor. Signior Lionel, most welcome. I would entreat your advice here to the clearing of a doubt.