Claud. I begin to doubt his wits; he looks so ghastly.
De F. Yes, I see a devil in those eyes, that makes my hair
Stare upward. False woman, my love durst scarce
Doubt before, what now I find and tremble at.
But heaven has wrath in ambush and scorpion-stings!
Claud. For what, my lord?
De F. Duchess, thy perjury and warm engagements
To this, this huge impostor!
Claud. Sir, he has crack'd his brains with poetry;
Pray, forgive him——
Des. Count, you know what privilege this roof can give
You on my anger, or else I should make your frenzy
Tongueless. Don't requite it barbarously on her,
That gives you leave to live by it. Gather your
Scatter'd wits up; go home, sir, and repent.
De F. Privilege!
I'll meet thee in a ring of flames, or on the tempest
Of some billow, upon whose back the raging north wind strides:
Yet I'd not ha' thee lose one spark of thy full man in noise
And air; that when next we greet, I may find thee worthy
My revenge. This frailty now protects thee.
Claud. Uncivil man, know the way back, or I shall
Let that justice loose upon you you deserve.
De F. Your centaur there, you mean; he must
Stare bigger to move a hair of mine.
Claud. You sha' not stir, sir; as you love me, do not:
Let him die mad.