Vit. Oh, he 's a happy husband! Now he owes nature nothing. Fran. And by a vaulting engine. Mont. An active plot; he jump'd into his grave. Fran. What a prodigy was 't, That from some two yards' height, a slender man Should break his neck! Mont. I' th' rushes! Fran. And what's more, Upon the instant lose all use of speech, All vital motion, like a man had lain Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance. Mont. And look upon this creature was his wife! She comes not like a widow; she comes arm'd With scorn and impudence: is this a mourning-habit? Vit. Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest, I would have bespoke my mourning. Mont. Oh, you are cunning! Vit. You shame your wit and judgment, To call it so. What! is my just defence By him that is my judge call'd impudence? Let me appeal then from this Christian court, To the uncivil Tartar. Mont. See, my lords, She scandals our proceedings. Vit. Humbly thus, Thus low to the most worthy and respected Lieger ambassadors, my modesty And womanhood I tender; but withal, So entangled in a curs'd accusation, That my defence, of force, like Perseus, Must personate masculine virtue. To the point. Find me but guilty, sever head from body, We 'll part good friends: I scorn to hold my life At yours, or any man's entreaty, sir. Eng. Ambass. She hath a brave spirit. Mont. Well, well, such counterfeit jewels Make true ones oft suspected. Vit. You are deceiv'd: For know, that all your strict-combined heads, Which strike against this mine of diamonds, Shall prove but glassen hammers: they shall break. These are but feigned shadows of my evils. Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils, I am past such needless palsy. For your names Of 'whore' and 'murderess', they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind, The filth returns in 's face. Mont. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question: Who lodg'd beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband broke his neck? Brach. That question Enforceth me break silence: I was there. Mont. Your business? Brach. Why, I came to comfort her, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you, my lord. Mont. He was. Brach. And 'twas strangely fear'd, That you would cozen her. Mont. Who made you overseer? Brach. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and noble spirit, To orphans and to widows. Mont. Your lust! Brach. Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest, I 'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, I 'll sheath in your own bowels. There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common post-boys. Mont. Ha! Brach. Your mercenary post-boys; Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies.