Lor. What, Lazarotto!
Laz. Or rather rotting in this lazy age
That yields me no employments: I have mischief
Within my breast, more than my bulk[293] can hold:
I want a midwife to deliver it.
Lor. I’ll be the he-one then, and rid thee soon
Of this dull, leaden, and tormenting elf.
Thou know’st the love betwixt
Bell’-Imperia and Andrea’s bosom?
Laz. Aye, I do.