Your treasury of love-letters. Death and furies!
I 'll see them all.


Vit. Sir, upon my soul,
I have not any. Whence was this directed?


Brach. Confusion on your politic ignorance!
You are reclaim'd, are you? I 'll give you the bells,
And let you fly to the devil.


Flam. Ware hawk, my lord.


Vit. Florence! this is some treacherous plot, my lord;
To me he ne'er was lovely, I protest,
So much as in my sleep.


Brach. Right! there are plots.
Your beauty! Oh, ten thousand curses on 't!
How long have I beheld the devil in crystal!
Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice,
With music, and with fatal yokes of flowers,
To my eternal ruin. Woman to man
Is either a god, or a wolf.