Lod. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?
Cand. I have the very same which myself wore.
Lod. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hour I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.
Cand. It will be but some jest, sir?
Lod. Only a jest: farewell, come, Carolo. [Exeunt Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.
Guests. We’ll take our leaves, sir, too.
Cand. Pray conceit not ill
Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,
Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic,
And he tells me, the disease called the mother,[246]
Hangs on my wife, it is a vehement heaving
And beating of the stomach, and that swelling
Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm,
That hit his lips, and brake the glass,—no harm,
It was no harm!
Guests. No, signor, none at all.
Cand. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance.
But come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance. [Exeunt.