You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you whore!
Thou'dst tremble, to imagine, that the murder
Of father, mother, brother, all thy race,
Should follow, as the subject of my justice.

CEL: Good sir, have pacience.

CORV: What couldst thou propose
Less to thyself, than in this heat of wrath
And stung with my dishonour, I should strike
This steel into thee, with as many stabs,
As thou wert gaz'd upon with goatish eyes?

CEL: Alas, sir, be appeas'd! I could not think
My being at the window should more now
Move your impatience, than at other times.

CORV: No! not to seek and entertain a parley
With a known knave, before a multitude!
You were an actor with your handkerchief;
Which he most sweetly kist in the receipt,
And might, no doubt, return it with a letter,
And point the place where you might meet: your sister's,
Your mother's, or your aunt's might serve the turn.

CEL: Why, dear sir, when do I make these excuses,
Or ever stir abroad, but to the church?
And that so seldom--

CORV: Well, it shall be less;