_Alb._ Can it be? Is't possible? Is't within the bounds of faith? O villainy! _Slip._ The clapper of rumour strikes on both sides, ringing out the French knight is in firm possession of my mistress, your wife. _Alb._ Is't possible I should be dead so soon In her affects? How long is't since our shipwrack? _Slip._ Faith, I have little arithmetic in me, yet I remember the storm made me cast up perfectly the whole sum of all I had receiv'd; three days before I was liquor'd soundly; my guts were rinced 'fore the heavens. I look as pale ever since, as if I had ta'en the diet[471] this spring. 13 _Alb._ But how long is't since our shipwrack? _Slip._ Marry, since we were hung by the heels on the batch of Sicily, to make a jail-delivery of the sea in our maws, 'tis just three months. Shall I speak like a poet?--_thrice hath the horned moon----_ _Alb._ Talk not of horns. O Celia! How oft, When thou hast laid thy cheek upon my breast, 20 And with lascivious petulancy sued For hymeneal dalliance, marriage-rites;-- O then, how oft, with passionate protests And zealous vows, hast thou obliged thy love, In dateless bands, unto Albano's breast! Then, did I but mention second marriage, With what a bitter hate would she inveigh 'Gainst retail'd wedlocks! "O!" would she lisp, "If you should die,"--then would she slide a tear, And with a wanton languishment intwist 30 Her hands,--"O God, and you should die! Marry? Could I love life, my dear Albano dead? Should any prince possess his widow's bed?" And now, see, see, I am but rumour'd drown'd. _Slip._ She'll make you prince;--your worship must be crown'd. O master, you know the woman is the weaker creature! She must have a prop. The maid is the brittle metal; Her head is quickly crack'd. The wife is queasy-stomach'd, She must be fed with novelties. But, then, what's your widow? _Custom is a second nature_;--I say no more, but think you the rest. 40