_Vit. Cor._ Humbly thus, Thus low, to the most worthy and respected Lieger ambassadors, my modesty And womanhood I tender; but withal, So entangled in a cursèd accusation, That my defence, of force, like Perseus,[50] Must personate masculine virtue. To the point. Find me but guilty, sever head from body, We'll part good friends: I scorn to hold my life At yours or any man's entreaty, sir. _Eng. Am._ She hath a brave spirit. _Mont._ Well, well, such counterfeit jewels Make true ones oft suspected. _Vit. Cor._ You are deceived: For know, that all your strict-combinèd heads, Which strike against this mine of diamonds, Shall prove but glassen hammers,--they shall break. These are but feignèd shadows of my evils: Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils; I am past such needless palsy. For your names Of whore and murderess, they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind; The filth returns in's face. _Mont._ Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question: Who lodged beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband brake his neck? _Brach._ That question Enforceth me break silence: I was there. _Mont._ Your business? _Brach._ Why, I came to comfort her, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you, my lord. _Mont._ He was. _Brach._ And 'twas strangely feared That you would cozen[51] her. _Mont._ Who made you overseer? _Brach._ Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and noble spirit To orphans and to widows. _Mont._ Your lust. _Brach._ Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest, I'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper I'll sheathe in your own bowels. There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common post-boys. _Mont._ Ha! _Brach._ Your mercenary post-boys: Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies. _Serv._ My lord, your gown. _Brach._ Thou liest, 'twas my stool: Bestow't upon thy master, that will challenge The rest o' the 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 demi-foot-cloth For his most reverent moil.[52] Monticelso, _Nemo me impune lacessit_. [_Exit._ _Mont._ Your champion's gone. _Vit. Cor._ The wolf may prey the better. _Fran. de Med._ 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 matter of incontinence.