_Alb._ Lorenzo Celso, our brave Venice Duke, Albano Belletzo, thy merchant, thy soldier, thy courtier, thy slave, thy anything, thy What thou Wilt, kisseth thy noble blood. Do me right, or else I am canonized a cuckold! canonized a cuckold! I am abused!--I am abused!--my wife's abused!--my clothes abused!--my shape,--my house,--my all,--abused! I am sworn out of myself,--beated out of myself,--baffled,--jeer'd at,--laugh'd at,--barred my own house,--debarr'd my own wife!--whilst others swill my wines,--gormandize my meat, meat,--kiss my wife!--O gods! O gods! O gods! O gods! O gods! 280 _Lav._ Who is't? Who is't? _Cel._ Come, sweet, this is your waggery, i'faith; as if you knew him not. _Lav._ Yes, I fear I do too well: would I could slide away invisible. _Duke._ Assured this is he. _Jaco._ My worthy liege, the jest comes only thus. Now to stop and cross it with mere like deceit: All being known, the French knight hath disguised A fiddler, like Albano too, to fright the perfumer:--this is all. 291 _Duke._ Art sure 'tis true? _Mel._ 'Tis confess'd 'tis right. _Alb._ Ay, 'tis right, 'tis true; right; I am a fiddler, a fiddler, a fiddler,--uds fut! a fiddler. I'll not believe thee; thou art a woman: and 'tis known, _veritas non quærit angulos_, truth seeks not to lurk under varthingalls; _veritas non quærit angulos_; a fiddler? _Lav._ Worthy sir, pardon; and permit me first to confess [to] yourself,--your deputation[558] dead, hath made my love live, to offend you. 301 _Alb._ Ay, mock on,--scoff on,--flout on,--do, do, do. _Lav._ Troth, sir, in serious. _Alb._ Ay, good, good; come hither, Celia. Burst, breast! rive, heart, asunder! Celia, Why startest thou back? Seest thou this, Celia? O me! How often, with lascivious touch, thy lip Hath kissed this mark? How oft this much-wrong'd breast Hath borne the gentle weight of thy soft cheek? 310 _Cel._ O me, my dearest lord,--my sweet, sweet love! _Alb._ What, a fiddler,--a fiddler? now thy love? I am sure thou scorn'st it; nay, Celia, I could tell What, on the night before I went to sea, And took my leave, with hymeneal rites, What thou lisped Into my ear, a fiddler and perfumer now! _And._[559] And---- _Ran._ Dear brother. _Jaco._ Most respected signior; Believe it, by the sacred end of love, 320 What much, much wrong hath forced your patience, Proceeded from most dear affièd love, Devoted to your house. _And._[559] Believe it, brother. _Jaco._ Nay, yourself, when you shall hear the occurrences, will say 'tis happy, comical. _Ran._ Assure thee, brother.