_Stabs her againe._

_Tam._ And yet I live.

_Mont._ I, for thy monstrous idoll is not done yet.
This toole hath wrought enough. Now, Torture, use
_Ent[er] Servants._
This other engine on th'habituate powers 145
Of her thrice damn'd and whorish fortitude:
Use the most madding paines in her that ever
Thy venoms sok'd through, making most of death,
That she may weigh her wrongs with them--and then
Stand, vengeance, on thy steepest rock, a victor! 150

_Tam._ O who is turn'd into my lord and husband?
Husband! my lord! None but my lord and husband!
Heaven, I ask thee remission of my sinnes,
Not of my paines: husband, O help me, husband!

_Ascendit Frier with a sword drawne._

_Fri._ What rape of honour and religion! 155
O wrack of nature! _Falls and dies._

_Tam._ Poore man! O, my father!
Father, look up! O, let me downe, my lord,
And I will write.

_Mont._ Author of prodigies!
What new flame breakes out of the firmament
That turnes up counsels never knowne before? 160
Now is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still;
Even heaven it selfe must see and suffer ill.
The too huge bias of the world hath sway'd
Her back-part upwards, and with that she braves
This hemisphere that long her mouth hath mockt: 165
The gravity of her religious face
(Now growne too waighty with her sacriledge,
And here discern'd sophisticate enough)
Turnes to th'Antipodes; and all the formes
That her illusions have imprest in her 170
Have eaten through her back; and now all see
How she is riveted with hypocrisie.
Was this the way? was he the mean betwixt you?

_Tam._ He was, he was, kind worthy man, he was.

_Mont._ Write, write a word or two.

_Tam._ I will, I will. 175
Ile write, but with my bloud, that he may see
These lines come from my wounds & not from me. _Writes._

_Mont._ Well might he die for thought: methinks the frame
And shaken joynts of the whole world should crack
To see her parts so disproportionate; 180
And that his generall beauty cannot stand
Without these staines in the particular man