Duke. O!
Ven. He had his tongue, yet grief made him die speechless.
Puh! 'tis but early yet; now I'll begin
To stick thy soul with ulcers. I will make
Thy spirit grievous sore; it shall not rest,
But like some pestilent man toss in thy breast.
Mark me, duke:
Thou'rt a renowned, high and mighty cuckold.
Duke. O!
Ven. Thy bastard—thy bastard rides a-hunting in thy brow.
Duke. Millions of deaths!
Ven. Nay, to afflict thee more,
Here in this lodge they meet for damned clips.[77]
Those eyes shall see the incest of their lips.
Duke. Is there a hell besides this, villains?
Ven. Villain!
Nay, heaven is just; scorns are the hires of scorns:
I ne'er knew yet adulterer without horns.
Hip. Once, ere they die, 'tis quitted.
Ven. Hark! the music:
Their banquet is prepar'd, they're coming—