SORANZO Come, strumpet, famous whore! Were every drop

Of blood that runs in thy adulterous veins

A life, this sword (dost see't?) should in one blow

Confound them all. Harlot, rare, notable harlot,

That with thy brazen face maintainst thy sin,

Was there no man in Parma to be bawd

To your loose cunning whoredom else but I?

Must your hot itch and pleurisy of lust,

The heyday of your luxury, be fed

Up to a surfeit, and could none but I

Be picked out to be cloak to your close tricks,

Your belly-sports? Now I must be the dad

To all that gallimaufry that's stuffed

In thy corrupted bastard-bearing womb,

Why must I?

ANNABELLA Beastly man! Why, 'tis thy fate.

I sued not to thee; for, but that I thought

Your over-loving lordship would have run

Mad on denial, had ye lent me time,

I would have told