+Ven.+ She changes colour. +Dor.+ He will not, sure, reveal confession! +Ver.+ We'll rise, and to our lodgings: I think your highness Keeps better hours in Venice? +Ven.+ As all do, sir: We many times make modest mirth a necessity To produce ladies' dreams. +Fran.+ How they shoot at us! Would I were in Milan! These passages fry me. _Enter +Jaspro+ and +Lodovico+._[161] +Jas.+ Here's strange juggling come to light. +Ver.+ Ha; juggling! +Jas.+ This friar hath confess'd unto Count Lodowick, That this lady here, being absolv'd, confess'd This morning to him here, in her own house, Her man Francisco here had lain with her. At which her lord runs up and down the garden Like one distracted, crying, _Ware horns, ho!_ +Dor.+ Art mad? Deny it yet; I am undone else. +Clown.+ Father Tony! +Lod.+ I confess it, I deny it--ay, anything. I do everything; I do nothing. +Ver.+ The friar's fallen frantic; and being mad, Depraves a lady of so chaste a breast, A bad thought never bred there. +Dor.+ 'Tis my misfortune still to suffer, sir. +Lod.+ Did you not see one slip out of a cloak-bag i' th' fashion of a flitch of bacon, and run under the table amongst the hogs? +Ven.+ He's mad, he's mad. +Clown.+ Ay, ay, a tithe-pig: 'twas overlaid last night, and he speaks nonsense all the day after---- +Dor.+ Shall I, sir, suffer this--in mine own house too? +Clown.+ I'd scratch out his eyes first. +Ver.+ Since, lady, you and your man Francisco Are the two injur'd persons, here disrobe This irregular son of his religious mother, Expose him to th' apparent blush of shame, And tear those holy weeds off. +Fran.+ Now you, my frantic brother, Had you not been better spar'd your breath? +Dor.+ And ye keep counsel, sir, no better, We'll ease you of your orders. +Clown.+ Nay, let me have a hand in't: I'll tear the coat with more zeal than a puritan would tear a surplice. +Fran.+ See what 'tis to accuse when you're mad. +Dor.+ I confess again to you now, sir, this man did lie with me. +Clown.+ And I brought him to her chamber, too: but come, turn out here. +Duke.+ Who's this? +Omnes.+ 'Tis Count Lodowick. +Lod.+ How dreams, sweet wife, do fall out true! +Clown.+ I was a-dream'd, now I remember, I was whipped through Verona. +Lod.+ I was your confessor: Did not I enjoin your chaste nice ladyship A dainty penance? +Jas.+ And she perform'd it As daintily, sir, we'll be sworn for that. +Dor.+ O good sir, I crave your pardon! +Lod.+ And what say you, Francis? +Fran.+ You have run best, sir: vain 'tis to defend; Craft sets forth swift, but still fails in the end. +Lod.+ You brought him to her chamber, Pambo. +Clown.+ Good my lord, I was merely inveigled to't.