CARDINAL. What 's the prodigy

FERDINAND.
Read there,--a sister damn'd: she 's loose i' the hilts;<68>
Grown a notorious strumpet.

CARDINAL. Speak lower.

FERDINAND. Lower!
Rogues do not whisper 't now, but seek to publish 't
(As servants do the bounty of their lords)
Aloud; and with a covetous searching eye,
To mark who note them. O, confusion seize her!
She hath had most cunning bawds to serve her turn,
And more secure conveyances for lust
Than towns of garrison for service.

CARDINAL. Is 't possible?
Can this be certain?

FERDINAND. Rhubarb, O, for rhubarb
To purge this choler! Here 's the cursed day
To prompt my memory; and here 't shall stick
Till of her bleeding heart I make a sponge
To wipe it out.

CARDINAL. Why do you make yourself
So wild a tempest?

FERDINAND. Would I could be one,