Mont. Go to, go to. After your goodly and vainglorious banquet, I 'll give you a choke-pear. Vit. O' your own grafting? Mont. You were born in Venice, honourably descended From the Vittelli: 'twas my cousin's fate, Ill may I name the hour, to marry you; He bought you of your father. Vit. Ha! Mont. He spent there in six months Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my acquaintance) Receiv'd in dowry with you not one Julio: 'Twas a hard pennyworth, the ware being so light. I yet but draw the curtain; now to your picture: You came from thence a most notorious strumpet, And so you have continued. Vit. My lord! Mont. Nay, hear me, You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano-- Alas! I make but repetition Of what is ordinary and Rialto talk, And ballated, and would be play'd a' th' stage, But that vice many times finds such loud friends, That preachers are charm'd silent. You, gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello, The Court hath nothing now to charge you with, Only you must remain upon your sureties For your appearance. Fran. I stand for Marcello. Flam. And my lord duke for me. Mont. For you, Vittoria, your public fault, Join'd to th' condition of the present time, Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity, Such a corrupted trial have you made Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd No less an ominous fate than blazing stars To princes. Hear your sentence: you are confin'd Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd---- Flam. [Aside.] Who, I? Mont. The Moor. Flam. [Aside.] Oh, I am a sound man again. Vit. A house of convertites! what 's that? Mont. A house of penitent whores. Vit. Do the noblemen in Rome Erect it for their wives, that I am sent To lodge there? Fran. You must have patience. Vit. I must first have vengeance! I fain would know if you have your salvation By patent, that you proceed thus. Mont. Away with her, Take her hence. Vit. A rape! a rape! Mont. How? Vit. Yes, you have ravish'd justice; Forc'd her to do your pleasure. Mont. Fie, she 's mad---- Vit. Die with those pills in your most cursed maw, Should bring you health! or while you sit o' th' bench, Let your own spittle choke you! Mont. She 's turned fury. Vit. That the last day of judgment may so find you, And leave you the same devil you were before! Instruct me, some good horse-leech, to speak treason; For since you cannot take my life for deeds, Take it for words. O woman's poor revenge, Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep; No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear To fawn on your injustice: bear me hence Unto this house of--what's your mitigating title? Mont. Of convertites.