SCUD. Can there be such a soul in such a shape? My love is subject of such misery, Such strange impossibilities and misfortune, That men will laugh at me, when I relate The story of it, and conceive I lie. Why, madam that shall be--lady in _posse_--do titles, Honours, and fortunes make you so forgetful? BEL. You are insolent--nay, strangely saucy, sir, To wrong me in this public fashion. SIR. J. WOR. Sirrah, go to: there's law. SCUD. There is, indeed, And conscience too: old Worldly, thou hast one; But for the other, wild Virginia, Black Afric, or the shaggy Scythia, Must send it over as a merchandise, Ere thou show any here. PEN. My honour'd lord, Say but the word, I'll force him from the door. C. FRED. I say the word: do it. SCUD. You, my lord's fine fool! ABRA. Ay, he, sir? SCUD. No! nor you, my lord's fool's fool. SIR INN. 'Ware, boy: come back. L. NIN. Come back, I say, Sir Abraham. STRANGE. 'Tis such a forward child. [_Intrant Templum._[29] SCUD. My passion and my cause of griefs so great, That it hath drown'd all worthy parts in me; As drink makes virtue useless in a man, And with too much kills natural heat in him, Or else I could not stand thus coldly tame, And see them enter, but with my drawn sword Should hale her by the hair unto the altar. And sacrifice her heart to wronged love. [_Aside._ KATH. On my life, it is so.[30] STRANGE. Worthy friend, I am exceeding sorry to see this, But cannot help it.