_La_. (_looking_forth_.) I have undone my selfe; it is my husband.
_Ri_. My forehead sweats: Where are you, Madam?
Whome did you talke too or take me for? ha! Asleepe
Alreadie, or doe I dreame? I am all wonder.
Madam,-
_La_.
You may kill him and please you, sweet heart;
I cannot abide a Blackamore.
_Ri_. How's this, wife?
_La_.
Helpe, helpe, deare husband, strangle him with one
Of my Lute strings; doe, doe, doe.
_Ri_. If shee be a sleepe she was not us'd to talke thus:
She has some hideous dreame.
She spake to me, to;
Whom should I strangle, sweet hart, with a lute string?
_La_. The King of _Morocco_, I thinke.
_Ri_.
Tis so, she dreames. What strange Chimeras wee
Doe fancie in our sleepe! I were best wake her.
Madam, Madam!
_La_.
O Murder, Murder!
_Ri_. Sweet heart, Madam, wake!
_La_. Whoes that?
_Ri_.
Tis I.
_La_. Sir _Richard_? Oh you have delivered me
From such a dreame I quake to thinke upon't.
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