All. Yes, my lord.
Car. All the city thinks he’s a whoremonger.
Ast. Yet I warrant he’ll swear no man marks him.
Ber. ’Tis like so, for when a man goes a wenching, it is as if he had a strong stinking breath, every one smells him out, yet he feels it not, though it be ranker than the sweat of sixteen bear warders.
Duke. I doubt then you have all those stinking breaths,
You might be all smelt out.
Car. Troth, my lord, I think we are all as you ha’ been in your youth when you went a-maying, we all love to hear the cuckoo sing upon other men’s trees.
Duke. It’s well; yet you confess. But, girl, thy bed
Shall not be parted with a courtesan.
’Tis strange,
No frown of mine, no frown of the poor lady,
My abused child, his wife, no care of fame,
Of honour, heaven, or hell, no not that name
Of common strumpet, can affright, or woo him
To abandon her; the harlot does undo him;
She has bewitched him, robbed him of his shape,
Turned him into a beast, his reason’s lost;
You see he looks wild, does he not?
Car. I ha’ noted new moons
In’s face, my lord, all full of change.
Duke. He’s no more like unto Hippolito,
Than dead men are to living—never sleeps,
Or if he do, it’s dreams: and in those dreams
His arms work, and then cries, Sweet—what’s her name,
What’s the drab’s name?
Ast. In troth, my lord, I know not,
I know no drabs, not I.