JERE. Counterfeit, madam! I’ll maintain him to be as absolutely and substantially mad as any freeholder in Bethlehem; nay, he’s as mad as any projector, fanatic, chymist, lover, or poet in Europe. VAL. Sirrah, you be; I am not mad. ANG. Ha, ha, ha! you see he denies it. JERE. O Lord, madam, did you ever know any madman mad enough to own it? VAL. Sot, can’t you apprehend? ANG. Why, he talked very sensibly just now. JERE. Yes, madam; he has intervals. But you see he begins to look wild again now. VAL. Why, you thick-skulled rascal, I tell you the farce is done, and I will be mad no longer. [_Beats him_.] ANG. Ha, ha, ha! is he mad or no, Jeremy? JERE. Partly, I think,—for he does not know his own mind two hours. I’m sure I left him just now in the humour to be mad, and I think I have not found him very quiet at this present. Who’s there? [_One knocks_.] VAL. Go see, you sot.—I’m very glad that I can move your mirth though not your compassion. ANG. I did not think you had apprehension enough to be exceptions. But madmen show themselves most by over-pretending to a sound understanding, as drunken men do by over-acting sobriety. I was half inclining to believe you, till I accidently touched upon your tender part: but now you have restored me to my former opinion and compassion. JERE. Sir, your father has sent to know if you are any better yet. Will you please to be mad, sir, or how? VAL. Stupidity! You know the penalty of all I’m worth must pay for the confession of my senses; I’m mad, and will be mad to everybody but this lady. JERE. So—just the very backside of truth,—but lying is a figure in speech that interlards the greatest part of my conversation. Madam, your ladyship’s woman. SCENE XX. VALENTINE, ANGELICA, JENNY. ANG. Well, have you been there?—Come hither. JENNY. Yes, madam; Sir Sampson will wait upon you presently. [_Aside to_ ANGELICA.] VAL. You are not leaving me in this uncertainty? ANG. Would anything but a madman complain of uncertainty? Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, and the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase. Never let us know one another better, for the pleasure of a masquerade is done when we come to show our faces; but I’ll tell you two things before I leave you: I am not the fool you take me for; and you are mad and don’t know it. SCENE XXI. VALENTINE, JEREMY. VAL. From a riddle you can expect nothing but a riddle. There’s my instruction and the moral of my lesson. JERE. What, is the lady gone again, sir? I hope you understood one another before she went? VAL. Understood! She is harder to be understood than a piece of Egyptian antiquity or an Irish manuscript: you may pore till you spoil your eyes and not improve your knowledge.