O, there’s a kind of state
In everything, save in a cuckold’s pate!
Fie, fie, Horatio! what, is your pen foul?
Hor. No, father, cleaner than Lorenzo’s soul;
That’s dipp’d in ink made of an envious gall,
Else had my pen no cause to write at all.
Jer. Signior Andrea, say.
Hor. Signior Andrea——
Jer. ’Tis a villainous age this.
Hor. ’Tis a villainous age this——