Isab. O, my winding-sheet!
Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord,
Let me hear once more, what I would not hear:
Never?

Brach. Never.

Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy,
As I upon a woeful widow'd bed
Shall pray for you, if not to turn your eyes
Upon your wretched wife and hopeful son,
Yet that in time you 'll fix them upon heaven!

Brach. No more; go, go, complain to the great duke.

Isab. No, my dear lord; you shall have present witness
How I 'll work peace between you. I will make
Myself the author of your cursed vow;
I have some cause to do it, you have none.
Conceal it, I beseech you, for the weal
Of both your dukedoms, that you wrought the means
Of such a separation: let the fault
Remain with my supposed jealousy,
And think with what a piteous and rent heart
I shall perform this sad ensuing part.

Enter Francisco, Flamineo, Monticelso, and Camillo

Brach. Well, take your course.--My honourable brother!

Fran. Sister!--This is not well, my lord.--Why, sister!--She merits not
this welcome.

Brach. Welcome, say!
She hath given a sharp welcome.

Fran. Are you foolish?
Come, dry your tears: is this a modest course
To better what is naught, to rail and weep?
Grow to a reconcilement, or, by heaven,
I 'll ne'er more deal between you.

Isab. Sir, you shall not;
No, though Vittoria, upon that condition,
Would become honest.

Fran. Was your husband loud
Since we departed?

Isab. By my life, sir, no,
I swear by that I do not care to lose.
Are all these ruins of my former beauty
Laid out for a whore's triumph?

Fran. Do you hear?
Look upon other women, with what patience
They suffer these slight wrongs, and with what justice
They study to requite them: take that course.

Isab. O that I were a man, or that I had power
To execute my apprehended wishes!
I would whip some with scorpions.

Fran. What! turn'd fury!

Isab. To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her die
Some twenty months a-dying; to cut off
Her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth;
Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophies
Of my just anger! Hell, to my affliction,
Is mere snow-water. By your favour, sir;--
Brother, draw near, and my lord cardinal;--
Sir, let me borrow of you but one kiss;
Henceforth I 'll never lie with you, by this,
This wedding-ring.