Orl. Oh here's a plot; you bring your champions with you; the adultress with the adulterer: Out howling—
Dub. Good my Lord.
Orl. Are you her Graces countenancer, Lady, the receiver to the poor vicious couple.
Dub. Sweet my Lord.
Orl. Sweet rascal, didst not tho tell me, false fellow,
This Montague here was murdered?
Dub. I did so; but he was falser, and a worthless Lord,
Like thy foul self that would have had it so.
Long. Orleance 'tis true, and shall be prov'd upon thee.
Mont. Thy malice Duke, and this thy wicked nature, are all as visible as thou; but I born to contemn thy injuries, do know, that though thy greatness may corrupt a Jury, and make a Judge afraid, and carry out a world of evils with thy Title: yet thou art not quiet at home, thou bearest about thee that, that doth charge thee, and condemn thee too. The thing that grieves me more, and doth indeed displease me, is, to think that so much baseness stands here to have encountred so much honor: Pardon me my Lord, what late my passion spake, when you provok'd my innocence.
Orl. Yes, do, oh! flattery becomes him better than the suit he wears; give him a new one, Amiens.
Ami. Orleance, 'tis here no time nor place, to jest or rail
Poorly with you, but I will find a time to
Whisper you forth to this, or some fit place,
As shall not hold a second interruption.