Scud. I prythee, do not mock me. Married!
Nev. It is no matter to be play'd withal,
But even as true, as women all are false.
Scud. O, that this stroke were thunder to my breast;
For, Nevill, thou hast spoke my heart in twain,
And with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath
Hast ravish'd me out of a temperate soil,
And set me under the red burning zone.
Nev. For shame! return thy blood into thy face.
Know'st not how slight a thing a woman is?
Scud. Yes, and how serious too. Come! I'll t' the Temple:
She shall not damn herself for want of counsel.
Nev. O, prythee, run not thus into the streets!
Come, dress you better: so. Ah! yes,[14] thy clothes
Are, like thy mind, too much disordered.
How strangely is this tide turn'd! For a world,
I would not but have call'd here as I went.
Collect thy spirits: we will use all means
To check this black fate flying toward thee. Come!
If thou miscarriest, 'tis my day of doom.
Scud. Yes—now I'm fine. Married! It may be so;
But, women, look to't: if she prove untrue,
The devil take you all, that are his due!
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
Enter Count Frederick, a tailor trussing him; attended by a page.