Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss’d the jack, upon an

upcast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on’t; and then a whoreson

jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of

him, and might not spend them at my pleasure.

What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl.

[_Aside._] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have

run all out.

When a gentleman is dispos’d to swear, it is not for any standers-by to

curtail his oaths. Ha?

No, my lord; [_Aside._] nor crop the ears of them.

Whoreson dog! I gave him satisfaction. Would he had been one of my

rank!

[_Aside._] To have smell’d like a fool.

I am not vex’d more at anything in th’ earth. A pox on’t! I had rather

not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the

Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I

must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.

[_Aside._] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your

comb on.

Sayest thou?

It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you

give offence to.

No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

Why, so I say.

Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court tonight?

A stranger, and I not known on’t?

[_Aside._] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

There’s an Italian come, and, ’tis thought, one of Leonatus’ friends.

Leonatus? A banish’d rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who

told you of this stranger?

One of your lordship’s pages.

Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in’t?

You cannot derogate, my lord.

Not easily, I think.

[_Aside._] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being

foolish, do not derogate.

Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost today at bowls I’ll

win tonight of him. Come, go.

I’ll attend your lordship.

That such a crafty devil as is his mother

Should yield the world this ass! A woman that

Bears all down with her brain; and this her son

Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,

And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,

Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st,

Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d,

A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer

More hateful than the foul expulsion is

Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act

Of the divorce he’d make! The heavens hold firm

The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d

That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand

T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!