_Mor._ Yes, if I were sure you would perform nothing.
_Ant._ Can you suspect I would leave you for Johayma?
_Mor._ No; but I can expect you would have both of us. Love is
covetous; I must have all of you; heart for heart is an equal trick.
In short, I am younger, I think handsomer, and am sure I love you
better. She has been my stepmother these fifteen years: You think that
is her face you see, but it is only a daubed vizard; she wears an
armour of proof upon it; an inch thick of paint, besides the wash. Her
face is so fortified, that you can make no approaches to it without a
shovel; but, for her constancy, I can tell you for your comfort, she
will love till death, I mean till yours; for when she has worn you
out, she will certainly dispatch you to another world, for fear of
telling tales, as she has already served three slaves, your
predecessors, of happy memory, in her favours. She has made my pious
father a three-piled cuckold to my knowledge; and now she would be
robbing me of my single sheep too.
_Ant._ Pr'ythee, prevent her then; and at least take the shearing of
me first.
_Mor._ No; I'll have a butcher's pennyworth of you; first secure the
carcase, and then take the fleece into the bargain.
_Ant._ Why, sure, you did not put yourself and me to all this trouble
for a dry come-off; by this hand-- [_Taking it.
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