Mir. I'll tell ye quickly.
Ye have a Lady in your cause, a fair one,
A gentler never trode on ground, a Nobler.
Mount. Do ye come on so fast? I have it for ye.
Mir. The Sun ne'r saw a sweeter.
Mount. These I grant ye:
Nor dare I against beauty heave my hand up,
It were unmanly, Sir; too much unmanly:
But when these excellencies turn to ruine,
To ruine of themselves, and those protect 'em;
When virtue's lost, lust and dishonor enter'd,
Loss of our selves and souls basely projected—
Mir. Do you think 'tis so?
Mount. Too sure.
Mir. And can it be?
Can it be thought Mountferrat, so much sweetness,
So great a Magazine of all things precious,
A mind so heavenly made, prethee observe me:
Mount. I thought so too: now by my Holy Order,
He that had told me, (till experience found it
Too bold a proof) this Lady had been vitious—
I wear no dull Sword Sir, nor hate I virtue.
Mir. Against her brother? to the man has bred her?
Her Bloud and Honor?
Mount. Where ambitious lust
Desires to be above the rule prescrib'd her,
Takes hold, and wins, poor chastity, cold duty,
Like fashions old forgot, she flings behind her,
And puts on bloud and mischief, death, and ruine,
To raise her new-built hopes, new faith to fasten her:
Ma' foy, she is as foul, as Heaven is beauteous.