as foule
As the deformed'st _Ethiope_.

_Bel_. Whats the matter?
Why do you staire so on me?

_Bon_. To admire
That such a goodly building as this same
Should have such vild stuff in itt.

_Bel_. What meanes this language?

_Bon_. Nothing, but only to informe you what
You know to well alreadie: _Belisia_, you are
--(I cannot call her whore)--a perjurd woman.

_Bel_. Defend me innocence! I scarce remember
That ever I made oath and therefore wonder
How I should breake on.

_Bon_. Have you not with imprecations beg'd
Heavens vengeance if you ere lovd man but me?

_Bel_. And those same heavens are vouchers[69]
I've kept my vowes with that strict purity
That I have done my honor.

_Bon_. I believe thee;
The divell sometimes speaks truth. Intemperate woman,
Thoust made that name a terme convertible
With fury, otherwise I should call thee soe,
How durst thou with this impudence abuse
My honest faith? did I appeare a guest
So infinitly worthles that you thought
The fragments of thy honour good enough
To sate my appetite, what other men
Had with unhallowd hands prophaind? O woman,
Once I had lockd in thy deceiving brest
A treasure wealthier then the _Indies_ both
Can in their glory boast, my faithfull heart,
Which I do justly ravish back from it
Since thou art turnd a strumpet.

_Bel_. Doe you thinke
I am what you have term'd me?

_Bon_. Doe I thinke
When I behold the wanton Sparrows change
Their chirps to billing, they are chast? or see
The Reeking Goate over the mountaine top
Pursue his Female, yet conceit him free
From wild concupiscence? I prithee tell me,
Does not the genius of thy honor dead
Haunt thee with apparitions like a goast
Of one thou'dst murdrd? dost not often come
To thy bed-side and like a fairy pinch
Thy prostituted limbs, then laughing tell thee
'Tis in revenge for myriads of black tortures
Thy lust inflicted on it?

_Bel_. Have you don?
Give me a little leave then ere my greife
Surround my reason. Witnes, gratious heaven,
Who, were you not offended at some sinn
I have unwittingly comitted, would
Send sacred innocence it selfe to pleade
How much 'tis iniurd in me, that with zeale
Above the love of mothers I have tendred
This misinformd man. Ile not aske the authors
Of this report, I doe forgive them; may
A happier fate direct you to some other
May love you better; and my fate conferr
On me with speed some sudden