Ven. Now must I blister my soul, be forsworn,
Or shame the woman that receiv'd me first.
I will be true: thou liv'st not to proclaim.
Spoke to a dying man, shame has no shame.
[Aside.
My lord.
Lus. Who's that?
Ven. Here's none but I, my lord.
Lus. What should thy haste utter?
Ven. Comfort.
Lus. Welcome.
Ven. The maid being dull, having no mind to travel
Into unknown lands, what did I[53] straight,
But set spurs to the mother; golden spurs
Will put her to a false gallop in a trice.
Lus. Is't possible that in this
The mother should be damn'd before the daughter?