Cloten.

Was there ever man had such luck! when I kiss'd the Jack upon an up-cast, to be hit away! I had an hundred pound on't; and then a whorson jack-an-apes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure.

1 Lord.

What got he by that? you have broke his pate with your bowl.

2 Lord.

If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

Clot.

When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha?

2 Lord.

No, my lord: nor crop the ears of them.

Clot.

Whorson dog! I give him satisfaction? would he had been one of my rank.

2 Lord.

To have smelt like a fool.

Clot.

I am not vext more at any thing in the earth,—a pox on't. I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother; every jack-slave hath his belly full of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that no body can match.

2 Lord.

You are a cock and a capon too, and you crow cock with your comb on.

Clot.

Say'st thou?

2 Lord.

It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion, that you give offence to.

Clot.

No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

2 Lord.

Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

Clot.

Why so I say.

1 Lord.

Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night?

Clot.

A stranger, and I not know on't?

2 Lord.

He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

1 Lord.

There's an Italian come, and 'tis thought one of Leonatus's friends.

Clot.

Leonatus! a banish'd rascal; and he's another, wheresoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

1 Lord.

One of your lordship's pages.

Clot.

Is it fit I went to look upon him? is there no derogation in't?

2 Lord.

You cannot derogate, my lord.

Clot.

Not easily, I think.

2 Lord.

You are a fool granted, therefore your issues being foolish, do not derogate.

Clot.

Come, I'll go see this Italian: what I have lost to-day at bowls, I'll win to-night of him. Come; go.

2 Lord.
I'll attend your lordship. [Exit Clot.
That such a crafty devil as his mother,
Should yield the world this ass; a woman, that
Bears all down with her brain, and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas poor princess,
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st,
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd,
A mother hourly coining plots; a wooer,
More hateful than the foul expulsion is

Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act
Of the divorce—he'll make the heav'ns hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour; keep unshak'd
That temple thy fair mind, that thou may'st stand
T' enjoy thy banish'd lord: and this great land. [Exeunt.

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