Who says this is improvident
jealousy? My wife hath sent to him; the hour is fix'd;
the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See
the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abus'd,
my coffers ransack'd, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall
not only receive this villainous wrong, but stand under the
adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me
this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer,
well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the
names
of fiends. But cuckold! Wittol! Cuckold! the devil himself
hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will
trust
his wife; he will not be jealous; I will rather trust a
Fleming
with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my
cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to
walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself. Then
she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what
they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break
their hearts but they will effect.
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