_Sir Jol._ Ay, ay! Thieves! thieves! Murder! murder! Where, neighbour, where, where? _L. Dunce._ [_Catches up_ BEAUGARD's _sword, which he had left behind him in the hurry, and presents it to_ Sir DAVY.] Pierce, pierce this wretched heart hard to the hilts; dye this in the deepest crimson of my blood; spare not a miserable woman's life, whom Heaven designed to be the unhappy object of the most horrid usage man e'er acted. _Sir Dav._ What, in the name of Satan, does she mean now? _L. Dunce._ Curse on my fatal beauty! blasted ever be these two baneful eyes, that could inspire a barbarous villain to attempt such crimes as all my blood's too little to atone for: nay, you shall hear me-- _Sir Dav._ Hear you, madam! No, I have seen too much, I thank you heartily; hear you, quoth-a! _L. Dunce._ Yes, and before I die too, I'll be justified. _Sir Dav._ Justified, O Lord, justified! _L. Dunce._ Notice being given me of your return, I came with speed to this unhappy place, where I have oft been blest with your embraces, when from behind the arras out starts Beaugard; how he came there Heaven knows. _Sir Dav._ I'll have him hanged for burglary; he has broken my house, and broke the peace upon my wife: very good. _L. Dunce._ Straight in his arms he grasped me fast; with much ado I plunged and got my freedom, ran to your closet-door, knocked and implored your aid, called on your name; but all in vain-- _Sir Dav._ Ha! _L. Dunce._ Soon again he seized me, stopped my mouth, and, with a conqueror's fury-- _Sir Dav._ O Lord! O Lord! no more, no more, I beseech thee; I shall grow mad, and very mad! I'll plough up rocks and adamantine iron bars; I'll crack the frame of nature, sally out like Tamberlane upon the Trojan horse, and drive the pigmies all like geese before me. O Lord, stop her mouth! Well, and how? and what then? stopped thy mouth! well! ha! _L. Dunce._ No, though unfortunate, I still am innocent; his cursed purpose could not be accomplished; but who will live so injured? No, I'll die to be revenged on myself: I ne'er can hope that I may see his streaming gore; and thus I let out my own-- [_Offers to run upon the sword._ _Sir Dav._ Ha, what wouldst thou do, my love? Pr'ythee don't break my heart: if thou wilt kill, kill me; I know thou art innocent, I see thou art; though I had rather be a cuckold a thousand times, than lose thee, poor love, poor dearee, poor baby. _Sir Jol._ Alack-a-day! [_Weeps._ _L. Dunce._ Ah me! _Sir Dav._ Ah, pr'ythee be comforted now, pr'ythee do; why, I'll love thee the better for this, for all this, mun; why shouldst be troubled for another's ill doings? I know it was no fault of thine.