_Fra._ Go, little vag, pleasure should have a crane's long neck, to relish de ambrosia of delight. And ick pre de tell me, for me loves to hear of manhood very mush, i'fait: ick prede--vat vas me a saying? Oh, ick prede tell a me how did you killa Metre Freevill? 40 _Mal._ Why, quarrelled o' set purpose, drew him out, Singled him, and, having the advantage Of my sword and might, ran him through and through. _Fra._ Vat did you vid him van he was sticken? _Mal._ I dragg'd him by the heels to the next wharf, And spurn'd him in the river. [_Those in ambush rusheth forth and take him._ _Sir Lio._ Seize, seize him! O monstrous! O ruthless villain! _Mal._ What mean you, gentlemen? By heaven---- _Tyse._ Speak not of anything that's good. 49 _Mal._ Your errors gives you passion: Freevill lives. _Sir Lio._ Thy own lips say thou liest. _Mal._ Let me die, if at Shatewe's the jeweller he lives not safe untouch'd. _Tyse._ Meantime to strictest guard, to sharpest prison. _Mal._ No rudeness, gentlemen: I'll go undragg'd. O, wicked, wicked devil! [_Exit._ _Sir Lio._ Sir, the day of trial is this morn; let's prosecute The sharpest rigour and severest end: Good men are cruel when they're vice's friend. _Sir Hub._ Woman, we thank thee with no empty hand; Strumpets are fit[92] for something. Farewell. 61 [_All save_ Young FREEVILL _depart_. _Free._ Ay, for hell! O, thou unreprievable, beyond all Measure of grace damn'd irremediably![93] That things of beauty created for sweet use, Soft comfort, as[94] the very music of life, Custom should make so unutterably[95] hellish! O, heaven! What difference is in women and their life! What man, but worthy name of man, would leave 70 The modest pleasures of a lawful bed-- The holy union of two equal hearts Mutually holding either dear as health-- Th' undoubted issues, joys of chaste sheets, Th' unfeign'd embrace of sober ignorance-- To twine th' unhealthful loins of common loves, The prostituted impudence of things, Senseless like those by cataracts of Nile, Their use so vile takes away sense! How vile To love a creature made of blood and hell, 80 Whose use makes weak, whose company doth shame, Whose bed doth beggar, issue doth defame! _Re-enter_ FRANCESCHINA.