_Di_. How you my Lord?

_Phi_. Why all the world's abus'd
In an unjust report.

_Di_. Oh noble Sir your vertues
Cannot look into the subtil thoughts of woman.
In short my Lord, I took them: I my self.

_Phi_. Now all the Devils thou didst flie from my rage,
Would thou hadst ta'ne devils ingendring plagues:
When thou didst take them, hide thee from my eyes,
Would thou hadst taken Thunder on thy breast,
When thou didst take them, or been strucken dumb
For ever: that this foul deed might have slept in
silence.

_Thra_. Have you known him so ill temper'd?

_Cle_. Never before.

_Phi_. The winds that are let loose,
From the four several corners of the earth,
And spread themselves all over sea and land,
Kiss not a chaste one. What friend bears a sword
To run me through?

_Di_. Why, my Lord, are you so mov'd at this?

_Phi_. When any falls from vertue I am distract,