SCUD. That letter, madam, tells you. BEL. Letter? ha! What, dost thou mock me? here is nothing writ. SCUD. Can you read anything, then, in this face? BEL. O basilisk! remove thee from my sight, Or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt! Ho! who attends us there? SCUD. Stir not a foot, And stop your clamorous acclamations, Or, by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs, I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick! I know the hazard I do undergo, And whatsoe'er after becomes of me, I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak-- And speak I will freely--and to bring back Your letters and such things you sent; and then I'll ne'er see those deceiving eyes again. BEL. O, I am sick of my corruption! For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me. SCUD. Not speak? yes, woman, I will roar aloud: Call thee the falsest fair that ever breath'd; Tell thee, that in this marriage thou hast drown'd All virtue left to credit thy weak sex, Which being (as 'twere) committed to thy trust, Thou traitorously hast betray'd it thus! Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts, To allure thee to reflect a beam on me? Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent, Past human wit, our means of intercourse? Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself, Perjur'd and impious? know, the good thou hast lost In my opinion, doth outvalue far The airy honours thou art married to. BEL. O, peace! for you speak sharpness to my soul, More torturous than hell's plagues to the damn'd. For love's sake, hear me speak! SCUD. For love's sake? no: Love is my surfeit, and is turn'd in me To a disease. BEL. Tyrant! my knees shall beg, Till they get liberty for my tongue to speak, Drown'd, almost, in the rivers of mine eyes. SCUD. What canst thou say? art thou not married? BEL. Alas! I was enforc'd; first by the threats Of a severe father, that in his hand Did gripe my fortunes: next to that, the fame Of your neglect and liberal-talking tongue, Which bred my honour an eternal wrong. SCUD. Pish! these are painted causes. Till this morn He liv'd not in this land, that durst accuse My integrity of such an ignorance. But take your letters here, your paper vows, Your picture and your bracelets; and if ever I build again upon a woman's faith, May sense forsake me! I will sooner trust Dice or a reconciled enemy: O God! What an internal joy my heart has felt, Sitting at one of these same idle plays, When I have seen a maid's inconstancy Presented to the life! how my glad eyes Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks Should tell the company convented there The mistress that I had free of such faults. BEL. O, still retain her so! dear Scudmore, hear me.