Casta est quam nemo rogavit.
You read his hot love to me, but you want
My frosty answer.


Mont. Frost i' th' dog-days! strange!


Vit. Condemn you me for that the duke did love me?
So may you blame some fair and crystal river,
For that some melancholic distracted man
Hath drown'd himself in 't.


Mont. Truly drown'd, indeed.


Vit. Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find,
That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart,
And a good stomach to feast, are all,
All the poor crimes that you can charge me with.
In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies,
The sport would be more noble.


Mont. Very good.


Vit. But take your course: it seems you 've beggar'd me first,
And now would fain undo me. I have houses,