Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity,
Such a corrupted trial have you made
Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd
No less an ominous fate than blazing stars
To princes. Hear your sentence: you are confin'd
Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd----


Flam. [Aside.] Who, I?


Mont. The Moor.


Flam. [Aside.] Oh, I am a sound man again.


Vit. A house of convertites! what 's that?


Mont. A house of penitent whores.


Vit. Do the noblemen in Rome
Erect it for their wives, that I am sent
To lodge there?


Fran. You must have patience.