Ri. How's this?
"Returne for heavens sake! my husband is not gone:
I heard his voice; this will undoe my fame!"
It was my wife, and this is sure my bed chamber.
La. (looking forth.) I have undone my selfe; it is my husband.
Ri. My forehead sweats: Where are you, Madam?
Whome did you talke too or take me for? ha! Asleepe
Alreadie, or doe I dreame? I am all wonder.
Madam,—
La. You may kill him and please you, sweet heart; I cannot abide a Blackamore.
Ri. How's this, wife?
La. Helpe, helpe, deare husband, strangle him with one Of my Lute strings; doe, doe, doe.
Ri. If shee be a sleepe she was not us'd to talke thus: She has some hideous dreame. She spake to me, to; Whom should I strangle, sweet hart, with a lute string?
La. The King of Morocco, I thinke.
Ri. Tis so, she dreames. What strange Chimeras wee Doe fancie in our sleepe! I were best wake her. Madam, Madam!
La. O Murder, Murder!