Nay at high noon too she shall gather stubble.
I’ll burn her up, and make her black as coal.
Micio. Right! now you’re wise.—And then I’d make my son
Go to bed to her, though against his will.
Dem. D’ye laugh at me? how happy in your temper!
I feel——
Micio. Ah! that again?
Dem. I’ve done.
Micio. In then!
And let us suit our humor to the time.