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And thou, forsooth,
To turn domestic driveller, talk of vows
By priestcraft fram’d to cheat us of those joys,
Which nature with a wide unsparing hand :
Freely spreads forth to all, and bids them gather;
Fie! and a soldier too — then give her up;
And let the hungry harpies of the law
Seize on her goods, and turn her forth to wander,
For she is ruin’d.

Ruin'd! how ?
Mont. Her senseless prodigality to one,
Who having fed on her prosperity,
And revell’d in the fulness of her fortune,
When he has pluck'd her golden feathers off,
Would turn her naked to the wintry wind;
A beggar on the world's humanity.
Know'st thou the man?

Ay, as I know myself.
I'm a contagious mildew, born to blast
Whate’er I light on.

No more moralizing: All yet may be redeem'd - Your wife as yet Knows nothing of your losses.

No, nor thinks E’en with the slightest glancing of mistrust, How deeply I have damn'd her.



There's my purse.
Nay, take it, there's some fifty ducats in't; to-night
Try fortune once again, she is a gill-flirt,
That's won with often wooing --come, look gay,
This may recover all.

Oh never, never,
All that can feed the sense and glad the eye,
Gold may redeem again: but all the slaves
That yet have ransack'd the wide womb of earth,
And excavated half the solid globe,
Have never lighted on that precious ore,
Whose current use could buy back innocence,
Or barter for lost peace -- that 'blessed peace
Whose cherub voice whispers calm within,
When all without is uproar — where, Montano,
Where shall I find it ?

In Rodone's arms.
Vall. Indeed it should be there, for there 'twas lost.



Alm. Have I found thee, villain !
Well may'st thou start,
Where is my sister ? but I have no words
To waste upon thee in my sword's keen point

Lies all my argument, which if it reach
The canker in thy heart, shall tell thee this: -
Thou might'st betray a woman, but a man
Is not within the compass of thy spells.
So stand and guard thyself.

So hot and fiery!
Alm. Fixt as her shame my vengeance, and as deep
As thy remorse should be.

Speak out thy wrongs. Think’st thou because a woman would be kind, And with soft dalliance soothe my idle hours -

Alm. Thou dost bely her, foully thou beliest her, She came no eager wanton to your arms, But slow and tim'rous, urged by solemn vows, Which, villain-like, you since have violated, She yielded up, a pure unspotted prize, Her virgin heart. Oh! she was all that nature ever form d To feed the ravish'd eye, and fill the soul. With wonder and delight mankind beheld her. Fresh as the lily, on the mountain's side, She bloomed in vestal purity -- Till a vile worm, Crept to her innocent breast, and nestling there, Distilled his venom on her opening sweets, And left them all to wither.


I possess’d her,
Till passion chang'd to dull satiety,
And mutual jarring fill’d the void of love.
I hate hypocrisy, so left the fair
To range the world at large, and did the same.

Alm. Left her to want and biting infamy:
Oh, my poor sister, my deluded martyr,
Where dost thou wander now: the wintry storm,
That heaves the lab’ring mountain to its base,
And gives deep-rooted oaks their shaking fits,
How will thy cheek endure it? - Think of this,
Oh think and tremble, for if I forgive thee; --
Nay, if I do not hunt thee through the world,
As an attainter of my house's blood,
May I survive in shame that Roman pander,
Who to his sister's arms let in the ravisher,
And trick'd her out for midnight violation.
So vengeance guide my arm.

If thus resolv’d,
I have an arm as well resolv'd as thine,
A name more terrible, and tho' thou could'st
Daunt fire-ey'd Mars, and make him drop his lance;
Thus would I grapple with thee.

[They fight. Enter VASQUEZ, who parts them. Vasq. For shame, put up your swords, whate'er may

draw them.

Here, in the heart of a well governed city,
To venture open broil - if you have wrongs,
As by your vehemence they seem most deep,
Appoint some fitter time, and place more apt
To feed your enmities.

You school me rightly,
And I am calm again. (To Mont.) A word in private,
Where shall we meet, and speedily.

The place and time.

To-morrow then, at twelve.
Mont. Well, be it so.
Alm. Exact at twelve. Till then, lie still my

sword, Nor leaping from thy dull and peaceful scabbard, Upbraid my tardy vengeance. — Sir, at twelve. (Exit.

Mont. I will remember. Now, my faithful Vasquez,
Hast thou disposed of the letter?

Long ere this,
Her eye hath reach'd it.

That's my true contriver:
And for this hot-brained honour-breathing spark,
I am not yet so barren of my wit,
To encounter him with hazard of my life;
I'll fight no more with him.

But how prevent it? Mont. 'Tis likely he has left the camp by stealth,


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