_San._ Then, to deal roundly with you, I would run a rambling myself, and leave the drudgery of my house to her management; all things should go at sixes and sevens for Sancho. In short, sennor, I will be as absolute as the Great Turk, and take as little care of my people as a heathen god. _Lop._ Now, Don Carlos, what say you? _Carl._ [_Aside._] I'll fit them for a husband.--[_To_ LOP.] Why, sennor, I would be the most careful creature of her business; I would inspect every thing, would manage the whole estate, to save her the trouble; I would be careful of her health, by keeping her within doors; she should neither give nor receive visits; nor kneel at church among the fops, that look one way, and pray another. _Dal._ Oh abominable! _Lop._ Why, thou ungrateful fellow! wouldst thou make a slave of my daughter? And leave her no business, that is to say, no authority in her own house? _Dal._ Ay, and to call fine young gentlemen fops too? To lock me up from visitants, which are the only comfort of a disconsolate, miserable, married woman! _Lop._ An' 'twere not for fear thou shouldst beat me, I could find in my heart to beat thee.--Don Sancho, I have an olla at home, and you shall be welcome to it.--Farewell, kinsman. [_To_ CARL. [_Exeunt_ LOP. _and_ SAN. _leading out_ DAL. _Carl._ Now, if I had another head, I could find in my heart to run this head against that wall. Nature has given me my portion in sense, with a pox to her, and turned me out into the wide world to starve upon it. She has given Sancho an empty noddle; but fortune, in revenge, has filled his pockets: just a lord's estate in land and wit. Well, I have lost Dalinda; and something must be done to undermine Sancho in her good opinion. Some pernicious counsel must be given him. He is my prince, and I am his statesman; and when our two interests come to clash, I hope to make a mere monarch of him[57]: and my hunger is somewhat in my way to quicken my invention. Wants whets the wit, 'tis true; but wit, not blest With fortune's aid, makes beggars at the best. Wit is not fed, but sharpened with applause; For wealth is solid food, and wit but hungry sauce. [_Exit._ ACT II. SCENE I.--_A Bed-Chamber; a Couch prepared, and set so near the Pit that the Audience may hear._ ALPHONSO _enters with a Book in his Hand, and sits; reads to himself a little while. Enter_ VICTORIA, _and sits by him, then speaks._ _Vict._ If on your private business I intrude, Forgive the excess of love, that makes me rude. I hope your sickness has not reached your heart, But come to bear a suffering sister's part; Yet, lest I should offend you by my stay, Command me to depart, and I obey.