'Twas a hard pennyworth, the ware being so light.
I yet but draw the curtain; now to your picture:
You came from thence a most notorious strumpet,
And so you have continued.


Vit. My lord!


Mont. Nay, hear me,
You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano--
Alas! I make but repetition
Of what is ordinary and Rialto talk,
And ballated, and would be play'd a' th' stage,
But that vice many times finds such loud friends,
That preachers are charm'd silent.
You, gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello,
The Court hath nothing now to charge you with,
Only you must remain upon your sureties
For your appearance.


Fran. I stand for Marcello.


Flam. And my lord duke for me.


Mont. For you, Vittoria, your public fault,
Join'd to th' condition of the present time,