Servant. My lord, your gown. Brach. Thou liest, 'twas my stool: Bestow 't upon thy master, that will challenge The rest o' th' household-stuff; for Brachiano Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool Out of another's lodging: let him make Vallance for his bed on 't, or a demy foot-cloth For his most reverend moil. Monticelso, Nemo me impune lacessit. [Exit. Mont. Your champion's gone. Vit. The wolf may prey the better. Fran. My lord, there 's great suspicion of the murder, But no sound proof who did it. For my part, I do not think she hath a soul so black To act a deed so bloody; if she have, As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines, And with warm blood manure them; even so One summer she will bear unsavoury fruit, And ere next spring wither both branch and root. The act of blood let pass; only descend To matters of incontinence. Vit. I discern poison Under your gilded pills. Mont. Now the duke's gone, I will produce a letter Wherein 'twas plotted, he and you should meet At an apothecary's summer-house, Down by the River Tiber,--view 't, my lords, Where after wanton bathing and the heat Of a lascivious banquet--I pray read it, I shame to speak the rest. Vit. Grant I was tempted; Temptation to lust proves not the act: Casta est quam nemo rogavit. You read his hot love to me, but you want My frosty answer. Mont. Frost i' th' dog-days! strange! Vit. Condemn you me for that the duke did love me? So may you blame some fair and crystal river, For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drown'd himself in 't. Mont. Truly drown'd, indeed. Vit. Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find, That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart, And a good stomach to feast, are all, All the poor crimes that you can charge me with. In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies, The sport would be more noble. Mont. Very good. Vit. But take your course: it seems you 've beggar'd me first, And now would fain undo me. I have houses, Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes; Would those would make you charitable! Mont. If the devil Did ever take good shape, behold his picture. Vit. You have one virtue left, You will not flatter me. Fran. Who brought this letter? Vit. I am not compell'd to tell you. Mont. My lord duke sent to you a thousand ducats The twelfth of August. Vit. 'Twas to keep your cousin From prison; I paid use for 't. Mont. I rather think, 'Twas interest for his lust. Vit. Who says so but yourself? If you be my accuser, Pray cease to be my judge: come from the bench; Give in your evidence 'gainst me, and let these Be moderators. My lord cardinal, Were your intelligencing ears as loving As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue, I would not care though you proclaim'd them all.