nor, you your daughter.

_Mon_. Now, as you are a right heroike Prince,
Be deafe unto your daughters faire[165] words.

_Euph_. Be deafe to him, as you regard your selfe.

_Duke_. What strange confusion's this that cloyes our hearing?

_Fred_. Speake, beauteous sister, who hath done thee wrong?

_Mon_. Her self.

_Euph_. This traitor.

_Fre_. Lord _Montano_?

_Euph_. Hee.

_Fred_. Villaine, thou dyest.

_Mon_. Stay, she meanes _Constantine_,
He that I found infolded in her closet,
Reaping the honour which a thousand Lords
Have fail'd in seeking in a lawful course.

_Con_. He does me wrong, my gracious soveraigne.

_Ju_. He wrongs my Ladie, an't please your grace.

_Mon_. Ile tell the trueth.

_Euph_. Or rather let me tell it.

_Mon_. Lacivious love is ever full of sleights.

_Euph_. Villaines, that seeke by treason their desires,
Want no suggestion to beguile a trueth.

_Mon_. I say, I found this peasant in her closet
Kissing, imbracing, and dishonouring her.

_Euph_. I say, an't please your gracious Excellence,
I found this Gentleman within my closet,
There set by subornation of this Lord,
And here appointed to dishonor me.
Speake, is't not true?

_Con_. True, if it please your grace.

_Duke_. What say you, strumpet?

_Ju_. Since my Ladie saies so,
I say and't please your Excellence--

_Duke_. Speake, woman.

_Ju_. 'Tis very true.

_Mon_. O monstrous forgerie!

_Fre_. O more then falshood to become so smooth
In such a dangerous action!

_Duke_. This is strange;
_Montano_ seeke the ruine of my daughter!

_Euph_. Because I would not yeeld unto his suite,
Which he in rapefull manner oft hath sought,
Hee set this Gentleman to doe me shame
Intending by exclaimes[166] to raise the Court,
But that repentance in my waiting Maide
And of his sorrowfull selfe reveal'd the plot.

_Mon_. O ye gods, how am I over-reacht!

_Duke_. I know the yong man to be well discended,
Of civill carriage and approved faith,
How ere seduced to this enterprise.

_Con_. My conscience, would not propagate that plot.

_Ju_. Nor mine, my Lord, though gold corrupted me.

_Mon_.--Cleane from the byas! wit, by heaven rare wit!
Ile tell another tale, if they have done.

_Duke_. What canst thou speake, vild[167] traitor?
Thou seest thou art prevented in thy plot
And therefore desperately coin'st any thing,
But I am deafe to all such stratagems.

_Mon_. Will you not heare me?

_Duke_. Forgeries and lies