Lope. Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine, which I wish the devil who gave it would carry [sic] away with him! cries for rest.
Cres. And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose who gave you your leg, gave me a bed, which I do want him to take away again, however, on which your leg may lie if it like.
Lope. But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well as give it?
Cres. To be sure he did.
Lope. Then I’ll unmake it—Heaven knows weary enough.
Cres. Heaven rest you then.
Lope. (aside). Devil or saint alike he echoes me!
Calderon de la Barca (1600-1681).
Trans. Edward Fitzgerald.