Duke. What say you to this?
Count. He that confesses he did once dissemble,
I'll never trust his words: can you imagine
A Maid, whose beauty could not suffer her
To live thus long untempted, by the noblest,
Richest, and cunningst Masters in that Art
And yet hath ever held a fair repute;
Could in one morning, and by him be brought,
To forget all her virtue, and turn whore?
Gond. I would I had some other talk in hand,
Than to accuse a Sister to her Brother:
Nor do I mean it for a publick scandal,
Unless by urging me you make it so.
Duke. I will read this at better leisure: [Gondarino, where is the Lady?]
Count. At his house.
Gond. No, she is departed thence.
Count. Whither?
Gond. Urge it not thus, or let me be excus'd,
If what I speak betray her chastity,
And both increase my sorrow, and your own?
Count. Fear me not so, if she deserve the fame
Which she hath gotten, I would have it publisht,
Brand her my self, and whip her through the City:
I wish those of my bloud that doe offend,
Should be more strictly punish[t], than my foes.
Let it be prov'd.
Duke. Gondarino, thou shalt prove it, or suffer worse than
she should do.