_Mont._ I, for thy monstrous idoll is not done yet. This toole hath wrought enough. Now, Torture, use _Ent[er] Servants._ This other engine on th'habituate powers 145 Of her thrice damn'd and whorish fortitude: Use the most madding paines in her that ever Thy venoms sok'd through, making most of death, That she may weigh her wrongs with them--and then Stand, vengeance, on thy steepest rock, a victor! 150 _Tam._ O who is turn'd into my lord and husband? Husband! my lord! None but my lord and husband! Heaven, I ask thee remission of my sinnes, Not of my paines: husband, O help me, husband! _Ascendit Frier with a sword drawne._ _Fri._ What rape of honour and religion! 155 O wrack of nature! _Falls and dies._ _Tam._ Poore man! O, my father! Father, look up! O, let me downe, my lord, And I will write. _Mont._ Author of prodigies! What new flame breakes out of the firmament That turnes up counsels never knowne before? 160 Now is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still; Even heaven it selfe must see and suffer ill. The too huge bias of the world hath sway'd Her back-part upwards, and with that she braves This hemisphere that long her mouth hath mockt: 165 The gravity of her religious face (Now growne too waighty with her sacriledge, And here discern'd sophisticate enough) Turnes to th'Antipodes; and all the formes That her illusions have imprest in her 170 Have eaten through her back; and now all see How she is riveted with hypocrisie. Was this the way? was he the mean betwixt you? _Tam._ He was, he was, kind worthy man, he was. _Mont._ Write, write a word or two. _Tam._ I will, I will. 175 Ile write, but with my bloud, that he may see These lines come from my wounds & not from me. _Writes._ _Mont._ Well might he die for thought: methinks the frame And shaken joynts of the whole world should crack To see her parts so disproportionate; 180 And that his generall beauty cannot stand Without these staines in the particular man. Why wander I so farre? here, here was she That was a whole world without spot to me, Though now a world of spots. Oh what a lightning 185 Is mans delight in women! What a bubble He builds his state, fame, life on, when he marries! Since all earths pleasures are so short and small, The way t'enjoy it is t'abjure it all. Enough! I must be messenger my selfe, 190 Disguis'd like this strange creature. In, Ile after, To see what guilty light gives this cave eyes, And to the world sing new impieties.