The party you wot on.

GENTLEMAN.
Oh ignoble thought.
I am past my patient blood: shall I stand idle
And see my reputation toucht to death?

HUSBAND.
Ta's galde you, this, has it?

GENTLEMAN.
No, monster, I will prove
My thoughts did only tend to vertuous love.

HUSBAND.
Love of her vertues? there it goes.

GENTLEMEN.
Base spirit,
To lay thy hate upon the fruitful Honor
Of thine own bed.

[They fight and the Husband's hurt.]

HUSBAND.
Oh!

GENTLEMAN.
Woult thou yield it yet?