cleansing, being well us'd,
But fetcheth blood still, being the least abus'd.
To tell you briefly all--the man that left me
When you appear'd, did turne me worse than woman,
And stab'd me to the heart, thus, with his fingers. 180

_Tam._ O happy woman! comes my stain from him,
It is my beauty, and that innocence proves
That slew Chymaera, rescued Peleus
From all the savage beasts in Peleon,
And rais'd the chaste Athenian prince from hell: 185
All suffering with me, they for womens lusts,
I for a mans, that the Egean stable
Of his foule sinne would empty in my lap.
How his guilt shunn'd me! Sacred innocence
That, where thou fear'st, are dreadfull, and his face 190
Turn'd in flight from thee that had thee in chace!
Come, bring me to him. I will tell the serpent
Even to his venom'd teeth (from whose curst seed
A pitcht field starts up 'twixt my lord and me)
That his throat lies, and he shall curse his fingers 195
For being so govern'd by his filthy soule.

_Mont._ I know not if himselfe will vaunt t'have beene
The princely author of the slavish sinne,
Or any other; he would have resolv'd me,
Had you not come, not by his word, but writing, 200
Would I have sworne to give it him againe,
And pawn'd mine honour to him for a paper.

_Tam._ See, how he flies me still! tis a foule heart
That feares his owne hand. Good my lord, make haste
To see the dangerous paper: papers hold 205
Oft-times the formes and copies of our soules,
And (though the world despise them) are the prizes
Of all our honors; make your honour then
A hostage for it, and with it conferre
My neerest woman here in all she knowes; 210
Who (if the sunne or Cerberus could have seene
Any staine in me) might as well as they.
And, Pero, here I charge thee, by my love,
And all proofes of it (which I might call bounties);
By all that thou hast seene seeme good in mee, 215
And all the ill which thou shouldst spit from thee;
By pity of the wound this touch hath given me,
Not as thy mistresse now, but a poore woman
To death given over, rid me of my paines;
Powre on thy powder; cleare thy breast of me. 220
My lord is only here: here speak thy worst;
Thy best will doe me mischiefe; if thou spar'st me,