ANG. Ha, ha, ha! is he mad or no, Jeremy?

JERE. Partly, I think,--for he does not know his own mind two
hours. I'm sure I left him just now in the humour to be mad, and I
think I have not found him very quiet at this present. Who's there?
[One knocks.]

VAL. Go see, you sot.--I'm very glad that I can move your mirth
though not your compassion.

ANG. I did not think you had apprehension enough to be exceptions.
But madmen show themselves most by over-pretending to a sound
understanding, as drunken men do by over-acting sobriety. I was
half inclining to believe you, till I accidently touched upon your
tender part: but now you have restored me to my former opinion and
compassion.

JERE. Sir, your father has sent to know if you are any better yet.
Will you please to be mad, sir, or how?

VAL. Stupidity! You know the penalty of all I'm worth must pay for
the confession of my senses; I'm mad, and will be mad to everybody
but this lady.

JERE. So--just the very backside of truth,--but lying is a figure
in speech that interlards the greatest part of my conversation.
Madam, your ladyship's woman.