ORDELAFFI.
Do the knave justice; he's a king of tongue-fence.
Not a weak joint in all our armours round,
But he knows, and can hit. Confound the rogue!
I'm blistered still from a word-basting he
Gave me but yesterday. Would we were quits!
TORELLI.
Wait! I 've a rod in pickle that shall flay
The tough hide off his hump. A rare revenge!
ASCOLTI.
They 're here—avoid!
FRANCESCA (looking off, as if watching, and to herself).
Still with her! changing hot plans and long looks!
Hers for the dance, hers at the feast,—all hers!
Nothing for me but shallow courtesies,
And hollow coin of compliment that leaves
The craving heart as empty as a beggar
Bemocked with counters!
BERTUCCIO (counting on his fingers and looking at the moon).
Moon—Manfredi—moon!
FRANCESCA.
Ha, knave!
BERTUCCIO.
By your leave, Monna Cecca, I am ciphering.
FRANCESCA.
Some fool's sum?
