_Mont._ Shall I expound whore to you? sure, I shall; I'll give their perfect character. They are first, Sweetmeats which rot the eater; in man's nostrils Poisoned perfumes: they are cozening alchemy; Shipwrecks in calmest weather. What are whores! Cold Russian winters, that appear so barren As if that nature had forgot the spring: They are the true material fire of hell: Worse than those tributes i' the Low Countries paid, Exactions upon meat, drink, garments, sleep, Ay, even on man's perdition, his sin: They are those brittle evidences of law Which forfeit all a wretched man's estate For leaving out one syllable. What are whores! They are those flattering bells have all one tune, At weddings and at funerals. Your rich whores Are only treasuries by extortion filled, And emptied by cursed riot. They are worse, Worse than dead bodies which are begged at gallows, And wrought upon by surgeons, to teach man Wherein he is imperfect. What's a whore! She's like the guilty counterfeited coin Which, whosoe'er first stamps it, brings in trouble All that receive it. _Vit. Cor._ This character scapes me. _Mont._ You, gentlewoman! Take from all beasts and from all minerals Their deadly poison-- _Vit. Cor._ Well, what then? _Mont._ I'll tell thee; I'll find in thee a pothecary's shop, To sample them all. _Fr. Am._ She hath lived ill. _Eng. Am._ True; but the cardinal's too bitter. _Mont._ You know what whore is. Next the devil adultery, Enters the devil murder. _Fran. de Med._ Your unhappy Husband is dead. _Vit. Cor._ O, he's a happy husband: Now he owes nature nothing. _Fran. de Med._ And by a vaulting-engine. _Mont._ An active plot; he jumped into his grave. _Fran. de Med._ What a prodigy was't That from some two yards' height a slender man Should break his neck! _Mont._ I' the rushes![49] _Fran. de Med._ 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 armed With scorn and impudence: is this a mourning-habit? _Vit. Cor._ Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest, I would have bespoke my mourning. _Mont._ O, you are cunning. _Vit. Cor._ You shame your wit and judgment, To call it so. What! is my just defence By him that is my judge called impudence? Let me appeal, then, from this Christian court To the uncivil Tartar. _Mont._ See, my lords, She scandals our proceedings.