_Pero._ What does your lordship meane? Madam, be comforted; my lord but tries you. Madam! Help, good my lord, are you not mov'd? Doe your set looks print in your words your thoughts? 150 Sweet lord, cleare up those eyes, Unbend that masking forehead. Whence is it You rush upon her with these Irish warres, More full of sound then hurt? But it is enough; You have shot home, your words are in her heart; 155 She has not liv'd to beare a triall now. _Mont._ Look up, my love, and by this kisse receive My soule amongst thy spirits, for supply To thine chac'd with my fury. _Tam._ O, my lord, I have too long liv'd to heare this from you. 160 _Mont._ 'Twas from my troubled bloud, and not from me. I know not how I fare; a sudden night Flowes through my entrailes, and a headlong chaos Murmurs within me, which I must digest, And not drowne her in my confusions, 165 That was my lives joy, being best inform'd. Sweet, you must needs forgive me, that my love (Like to a fire disdaining his suppression) Rag'd being discouraged; my whole heart is wounded When any least thought in you is but touch't, 170 And shall be till I know your former merits, Your name and memory, altogether crave In just oblivion their eternall grave; And then, you must heare from me, there's no meane In any passion I shall feele for you. 175 Love is a rasor, cleansing, being well us'd, But fetcheth blood still, being the least abus'd. To tell you briefly all--the man that left me When you appear'd, did turne me worse than woman, And stab'd me to the heart, thus, with his fingers. 180 _Tam._ O happy woman! comes my stain from him, It is my beauty, and that innocence proves That slew Chymæra, rescued Peleus From all the savage beasts in Peleon, And rais'd the chaste Athenian prince from hell: 185 All suffering with me, they for womens lusts, I for a mans, that the Egean stable Of his foule sinne would empty in my lap. How his guilt shunn'd me! Sacred innocence That, where thou fear'st, are dreadfull, and his face 190 Turn'd in flight from thee that had thee in chace! Come, bring me to him. I will tell the serpent Even to his venom'd teeth (from whose curst seed A pitcht field starts up 'twixt my lord and me) That his throat lies, and he shall curse his fingers 195 For being so govern'd by his filthy soule. _Mont._ I know not if himselfe will vaunt t'have beene The princely author of the slavish sinne, Or any other; he would have resolv'd me, Had you not come, not by his word, but writing, 200 Would I have sworne to give it him againe, And pawn'd mine honour to him for a paper.