+Clown.+ Well, I may hope for a 'squire's place; my father was a costermonger.[127] [_Exit._ +Fran.+ Well, now I see, as he who fain would know The real strain of goodness, may in her read it, Who can seem chaste, but not be what she seems: So, who would see hell's craft, in her may read it, Who can seem too, but not be what she seems. In brief, put him to school (would cheat the de'il of's right) To a dainty, smooth-fac'd, female hypocrite. [_Exit._ _Enter +Lodovico+ and +Clown+._ +Lod.+ Here's a wife, Pambo! +Clown.+ Now, _Crede quod habes, et habes_, sir. +Lod.+ Why, right, man; let him believe he has horns, and he has 'em. +Clown.+ To discover upon the pinch to ye! +Lod.+ O you kind loving husbands, like myself, What fortunes meet ye, fall[128] but with such wives. +Clown.+ Fortune's i' th' fashion of hay-forks. +Lod.+ Sirrah Pambo, thou shalt seldom see a harsh fellow have such a wife, such a fortunate wedding. +Clown.+ He will go to hanging as soon. +Lod.+ No, no; we loving souls have all the fortunes. There's Count Lorenzo, for example, now; There's a sweet coil to-morrow 'bout his wife. He has two servants, that will take their oaths They saw her dishonest with his friend Count Philippo; Nay, in the very act. Now what was't brought her to't, But his dogged usage of her? +Clown.+ Nay, she never lived a good day with him. +Lod.+ How she goes flaunting too! she must have a Feather in her head and a cork in her heel. +Clown.+ Ay, that shows her light from head to heel, sir; and who have heavier heads than those whose wives have light heels? that feather confounds her. +Lod.+ I shall so laugh to hear the comical history of the great Count Lorenzo's horns: but as I have such a wife now, what a villain did I entertain to teach her music? H' has done her no good since he came, that I saw. +Clown.+ Hang him, h' has made her a little perfect in prick-song, that's all; and it may be, she had skill in that before you married her too. +Lod.+ She could sing at the first sight, by this hand, Pambo. But hark! I hear somebody. _Enter +Francisco+._ +Clown.+ 'Tis he, sure; h' has a dreaming whoremaster's pace. Pray, let me practise my lady's part, and counterfeit for her. +Lod.+ Can'st thou imitate to th' life? +Clown.+ Can I? O wicked Francis! +Lod.+ Admirable! Thou shalt do't. +Clown.+ Pray, be you ready with your rapier to spit him then, and I'll watch him a good turn, I warrant ye. +Fran.+ Here they are. If Pambo now comes off with his part neatly, the comedy passes bravely. Who's there? madam? +Clown.+ Francis? +Fran.+ The same. +Clown.+ I think this place lies too open to the air, Francis?