+Abs.+ You are, sir, Just like the Indian hyssop, prais'd of strangers For the sweet scent, but hated of the inhabitants For the injurious quality. Can he love the wife, That would betray the husband? Hast thou not seen me Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers The angry bark to plough thorough her bosom, And yet is presently so smooth, the eye Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made? And cannot this inform, I love him better In his sour follies, than you in your sweet flatteries? If Verona hath observ'd any errors in me, I well may call for grace to amend them, But will never fall from grace to befriend you. +Phil.+ With what a majesty good women thunder! +Lor.+ H' has given her some close nod that I am here. +Abs.+ Rip up the end of thy intent, and see, How shame and fear do lurk where you would walk, Like a pair of serpents in a flow'ry mead. Lust sees with pleasure, but with fear doth tread. +Phil.+ Very brave, woman! +Abs.+ What is the pleasure thou pursu'st? A sin Finish'd with infinite sorrows. Read, and find, How barb'rous nations punish it with death: How a minute's sin so stolen, though in the face Sit summer calms all smooth, yet thou wilt hear, From the eternal 'larum[122] of thy conscience, How it sets within thy soul continual tempests, Thunder and dismal blackness! Mark but the course Of the holy-seeming hollow man, and see How he that glories heaven with no honour, Covets to glorify himself with honesty. And, to put you past your hopes, let me leave this with you:-- Thou may'st hold an elephant with a thread, eat fire And not be burnt, or catch birds with desire, Quench flame with oil, cut diamonds with glass, Pierce steel with feathers: this thou may'st bring to pass Sooner than hope to steal the husband's right, Whose wife is honest, and no hypocrite.[123] [_Exit._ +Phil.+ What think you now, sir? +Lor.+ [_Coming forward._] Why now I do think it possible for the world To have an honest woman in it. Goodbye, sir; I must go meet the duke. Adieu. +Phil.+ Farewell. O jealousy! how near thou dwell'st to hell! [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Lodovico+, +Pandulpho+, +Spinoso+, +Jaspro+_, +Jovani+, _and +Clown+._ +Lod.+ The duke not seven leagues off? my horse, rogues! +Pan.+ Our negligence deserves just blame; and how 'Twill please his grace to construe it, we know not. +Jas.+ But where's your fair chaste wife, my lord? +Lod.+ Marry, with my man Francisco. O that fellow! She were undone without him; for indeed she takes great pleasure in him: he learns her music. To hear what counsel she will give him! if he but screw his look sometimes with the pin, she will tell him straight 'twas an unchristian look. I love him dearly.