Flam. Hang him; a gilder that hath his brains perished with quicksilver is not more cold in the liver. The great barriers moulted not more feathers, than he hath shed hairs, by the confession of his doctor. An Irish gamester that will play himself naked, and then wage all downward, at hazard, is not more venturous. So unable to please a woman, that, like a Dutch doublet, all his back is shrunk into his breaches. Shroud you within this closet, good my lord; Some trick now must be thought on to divide My brother-in-law from his fair bed-fellow. Brach. Oh, should she fail to come---- Flam. I must not have your lordship thus unwisely amorous. I myself have not loved a lady, and pursued her with a great deal of under-age protestation, whom some three or four gallants that have enjoyed would with all their hearts have been glad to have been rid of. 'Tis just like a summer bird-cage in a garden: the birds that are without despair to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a consumption for fear they shall never get out. Away, away, my lord. [Exit Brachiano as Camillo enters. See here he comes. This fellow by his apparel Some men would judge a politician; But call his wit in question, you shall find it Merely an ass in 's foot-cloth. How now, brother? What, travelling to bed with your kind wife? Cam. I assure you, brother, no. My voyage lies More northerly, in a far colder clime. I do not well remember, I protest, When I last lay with her. Flam. Strange you should lose your count. Cam. We never lay together, but ere morning There grew a flaw between us. Flam. 'T had been your part To have made up that flaw. Cam. True, but she loathes I should be seen in 't. Flam. Why, sir, what 's the matter? Cam. The duke your master visits me, I thank him; And I perceive how, like an earnest bowler, He very passionately leans that way he should have his bowl run. Flam. I hope you do not think---- Cam. That nobleman bowl booty? faith, his cheek Hath a most excellent bias: it would fain Jump with my mistress. Flam. Will you be an ass, Despite your Aristotle? or a cuckold, Contrary to your Ephemerides, Which shows you under what a smiling planet You were first swaddled? Cam. Pew wew, sir; tell me not Of planets nor of Ephemerides. A man may be made cuckold in the day-time, When the stars' eyes are out. Flam. Sir, good-bye you; I do commit you to your pitiful pillow Stuffed with horn-shavings. Cam. Brother! Flam. God refuse me. Might I advise you now, your only course Were to lock up your wife. Cam. 'Twere very good. Flam. Bar her the sight of revels. Cam. Excellent. Flam. Let her not go to church, but, like a hound In leon, at your heels. Cam. 'Twere for her honour.