Vio. O, I beseech you, pardon my offence,
In that I durst abuse your grace’s warrant;
Deliver forth my husband, good my lord.
Duke. Who is her husband?
Flu. Candido, my lord.
Duke. Where is he?
Vio. He’s among the lunatics;
He was a man made up without a gall;
Nothing could move him, nothing could convert
His meek blood into fury; yet like a monster,
I often beat at the most constant rock
Of his unshaken patience, and did long
To vex him.
Duke. Did you so?
Vio. And for that purpose,
Had warrant from your grace, to carry him
To Bethlem Monastery, whence they will not free him,
Without your grace’s hand that sent him in.
Duke. You have longed fair; ’tis you are mad, I fear;
It’s fit to fetch him thence, and keep you there:
If he be mad, why would you have him forth?
Geo. An please your grace, he’s not stark mad, but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat fantastically, that’s all: there’s a thousand about your court, city, and country madder than he.
Duke. Provide a warrant, you shall have our hand.