Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad,
And jealous woman.


Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking.


Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn,
You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee,
For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow
And take your chamber.


Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua;
I will not stay a minute.


Mont. Oh, good madam!


Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour;
Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach,
And then she 'll turn in post.


Fran. To see her come
To my lord for a dispensation
Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter.