Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease,
Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.
You know Vittoria?


Brach. Yes.


Fran. You shift your shirt there,
When you retire from tennis?


Brach. Happily.


Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune,
Yet she wears cloth of tissue.


Brach. What of this?
Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal,
As part of her confession at next shrift,
And know from whence it sails?


Fran. She is your strumpet----


Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath,
And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine,