LANCIOTTO.  You’re a raven, croaker.

  PEPE.  And you no white crow, to insure us luck.

  MALATESTA.  There’s matter in his croak.

PEPE.  There always is;
But men lack ears.

MALATESTA.  Then eyes must do our work. 
Old Guido shall be looked to.  If his force
Appear too great, I’ll camp him out of town.

  LANCIOTTO.  Father, you are a sorry host.

MALATESTA.  Well, well,
I’m a good landlord, though.  I do not like
This flight of eagles more than Pepe.  ’Sdeath! 
Guido was ever treacherous.

LANCIOTTO.  My lord,
You mar my holiday by such a thought. 
My holiday!  Dear saints! it seems to me
That all of you are mocking me.

PEPE.  So—­so—­
Guido was ever treacherous?—­so—­so!

  MALATESTA.  So—­so!  How so?

PEPE.  What if this treachery
Run in the blood?  We’ll tap a vein then—­so!

  MALATESTA.  Sew up your mouth, and mind your fooling fool!

PEPE.  Am I not fooling?  Why, my lord, I thought
The fooling exquisite.

  LANCIOTTO. [Aside.] This thoughtless knave
Hits near us sometimes with his random shafts. 
Marriage for me!  I cannot comprehend,
I cannot take it to my heart; the thing
Seems gross, absurd, ridiculous.  Ah! well,
My father bears the folly of it all;
I’m but an actor in his comedy. 
My part is bad, but I must through with it.
          
                                                     [Retires.

    Shouts, music, &c., within.

PEPE.  Look! here’s the whole parade!  Mark yonder knave—­
The head one with the standard.  Nature, nature! 
Hadst thou a hand in such a botch-work?  Why,
A forest of his legs would scarcely make
A bunch of fagots.  Mark old Guido, too! 
He looks like Judas with his silver.  Ho! 
Here’s news from sweet Ravenna!

  MALATESTA. [Laughing.] Ha! ha! ha!

PEPE.  Ah! now the bride!—­that’s something—­she is tooth-some. 
Look you, my lord—­now, while the progress halts—­
Cousin Paolo, has he got the dumps? 
Mercy! to see him, one might almost think
’T was his own marriage.  What a doleful face! 
The boy is ill.  He caught a fever, uncle,
Travelling across the marshes.  Physic! physic! 
If he be really dying, get a doctor,
And cut the matter short.  ’Twere merciful.

MALATESTA.  For heaven’s sake, cease your clamour!  I shall have
No face to meet them else.  ’Tis strange, for all: 
What ails Paolo?

  PEPE.  Dying, by this hand!

  MALATESTA.  Then I will hang you.

PEPE.  Don’t take up my craft. 
Wit’s such a stranger in your brain that I
Scarce knew my lodger venturing from your mouth. 
Now they come on again.