Bell. Too true.
Hip. What was he whom he killed? Oh, his name’s here;
Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine;
Giacomo, a dog, that to meet profit,
Would to the very eyelids wade in blood
Of his own children. Tell Matheo,
The duke, my father, hardly shall deny
His signèd pardon; ’twas fair fight, yes,
If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here.—
To-morrow morning I return from court,
Pray be you here then.—I’ll have done, sir, straight:— [To Antonio.
But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife?
You have forgot me.
Bell. No, my lord.
Hip. Your turner,
That made you smooth to run an even bias,
You know I loved you when your very soul
Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?
Bell. Umph, when I had lost my way to Heaven, you showed it:
I was new born that day.
Re-enter Lodovico.
Lod. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.
Hip. Ride softly on before, I’ll o’ertake you.
Lod. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before, without ye.
Hip. Prithee, good Lodovico.