VOLP: O, more than if I had enjoy'd the wench:
The pleasure of all woman-kind's not like it.

MOS: Why now you speak, sir. We must here be fix'd;
Here we must rest; this is our master-peice;
We cannot think to go beyond this.

VOLP: True.
Thou hast play'd thy prize, my precious Mosca.

MOS: Nay, sir,
To gull the court--

VOLP: And quite divert the torrent
Upon the innocent.

MOS: Yes, and to make
So rare a music out of discords--

VOLP: Right.
That yet to me's the strangest, how thou hast borne it!
That these, being so divided 'mongst themselves,
Should not scent somewhat, or in me or thee,
Or doubt their own side.

MOS: True, they will not see't.
Too much light blinds them, I think. Each of them
Is so possest and stuft with his own hopes,
That any thing unto the contrary,
Never so true, or never so apparent,