Mat. Spurn my sweet varlet?
Bell. O how many thus
Moved with a little folly, have let out
Their souls in brothel-houses! fell down and died
Just at their harlot’s foot, as ’twere in pride.
Flu. Matheo, we shall meet.
Mat. Ay, ay; any where, saving at church:
Pray take heed we meet not there.
Flu. Adieu, damnation!
Cas. Cockatrice, farewell!
Pio. There’s more deceit in women, than in hell. [Exeunt Castruchio, Fluello and Pioratto.
Mat. Ha, ha, thou dost gull ’em so rarely, so naturally! If I did not think thou hadst been in earnest: thou art a sweet rogue for’t i’faith.
Bell. Why are not you gone too, Signor Matheo?
I pray depart my house: you may believe me,
In troth, I have no part of harlot in me.