Pio. Well, sir.
Cas. To conclude, the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold.
Flu. O, ’twere admirable mirth, that: but how will’t be done, signor?
Cas. Let me alone, I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern token.
Pio. Thou stir him? thou move him? thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper: thou vex him? why he has a patience above man’s injuries: thou may’st sooner raise a spleen in an angel, than rough humour in him. Why I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered Signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords, of curious taste, and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,[135] to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trencher-men. She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnished, not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained the lords, and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude, they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled, and their teeth deluded, and, if anger could have seized a man, there was matter enough i’faith to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.
Flu. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case, I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family: first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids, and baked the mistress, and so served them in.
Pio. Why ’twould ha’ tempted any blood but his,
And thou to vex him? thou to anger him
With some poor shallow jest?
Cas. ’Sblood, Signor Pioratto, you that disparage my conceit, I’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on’t, that it moves him, frets him, and galls him.
Pio. Done, ’tis a lay,[136] join golls[137] on’t: witness Signor Fluello.
Cas. Witness: ’tis done:
Come, follow me: the house is not far off,
I’ll thrust him from his humour, vex his breast,
And win a hundred ducats by one jest. [Exeunt.