Mat. I cannot tell, I may choose.
Duke. Nay, then, law shall compel: I tell you, sir,
So much her hard fate moves me, you should not breathe
Under this air, unless you married her.
Mat. Well, then, when her wits stand in their right place,
I’ll marry her.
Bell. I thank your grace.—Matheo, thou art mine:
I am not mad, but put on this disguise,
Only for you, my lord; for you can tell
Much wonder of me, but you are gone: farewell.
Matheo, thou didst first turn my soul black,
Now make it white again: I do protest,
I’m pure as fire now, chaste as Cynthia’s breast.
Hip. I durst be sworn, Matheo, she’s indeed.
Mat. Cony-catched, gulled, must I sail in your fly-boat,
Because I helped to rear your main-mast first?
Plague ’found[228] you for’t, ’tis well.
The cuckold’s stamp goes current in all nations,
Some men ha’ horns giv’n them at their creations,
If I be one of those, why so: ’tis better
To take a common wench, and make her good,
Than one that simpers, and at first will scarce
Be tempted forth over the threshold door,
Yet in one se’nnight, zounds, turns arrant whore!
Come wench, thou shalt be mine, give me thy golls,[229]
We’ll talk of legs hereafter.—See, my lord,
God give us joy!
All. God give you joy!
Enter Viola and George.
Geo. Come mistress, we are in Bedlam now; mass and see, we come in pudding-time, for here’s the duke.