_Mal._ I do not blush, although condemned by laws; No kind of death is shameful but the cause, Which I do know is none; and yet my lust 10 Hath made the one (although not cause) most just. May I not be reprieved? Freevill is but mislodg'd; Some lethargy hath seiz'd him--no, much malice; Do not lay blood upon your souls with good intents; Men may do ill, and law sometime repents. [COCLEDEMOY _picks_ MALHEUREUX' _pocket of his purse_. _Sir Lio._ Sir, sir, prepare; vain is all lewd defence. _Mal._ Conscience was law, but now law's conscience. My endless peace is made; and to the poor,-- My purse, my purse! _Coc._ Ay, sir; and it shall please you, the poor has your purse already. 21 _Mal._ You[109] are a wily[110] man. --But now, thou source of devils, oh, how I loathe The very memory of that I adored! He that's of fair blood, well mien'd, of good breeding, Best famed, of sweet acquaintance, and true friends, And would with desperate impudence lose all these, And hazard landing at this fatal shore,-- Let him ne'er kill, nor steal, but love a whore. _Fra._ De man does rave; tinck a got, tinck a got, and bid de flesh, de world, and the dible, farewell. 31 _Mal._ Farewell! _Free._ Farewell! [FREEVILL _discovers himself_. _Fra._ Vat ist you see?--Hah! _Free._ Sir, your pardon, with my this defence: Do not forget protested violence Of your low affections: no requests, No arguments of reason, no known danger, No assured wicked bloodiness, Could draw your heart from this damnation. 40 _Mal._ Why, stay! _Fra._ Unprosperous devil, vat sall me do now? _Free._ Therefore, to force you from the truer danger, I wrought the feignèd; suffering this fair devil In shape of woman to make good her plot: And, knowing that the hook was deeply fast, I gave her line at will, till, with her own vain strivings, See here she's tired. O thou comely damnation! Dost think that vice is not to be withstood? O what is woman, merely made of blood! 50 _Sir Lio._ You maze us all; let us not be lost in darkness! _Free._ All shall be lighted; but this time and place Forbids longer speech; only what you can think Has been extremely ill, is only hers. _Sir Lio._ To severest prison with her! With what heart canst live-- What eyes behold a face? _Fra._ Ick vil not speak; torture, torture your fill, For me am worse than hang'd; me ha' lost my will. [_Exit_ FRANCESCHINA _with the guard_. _Sir Lio._ To the extremest whip and jail. _Free._ Frolic, how is it, sirs? 60