Amint. Your Sister.
Mel. Well said.
Amint. You'l wish't unknown, when you have heard it.
Mel. No.
Amint. Is much to blame,
And to the King has given her honour up,
And lives in Whoredom with him.
Mel. How, this!
Thou art run mad with injury indeed,
Thou couldst not utter this else; speak again,
For I forgive it freely; tell thy griefs.
Amint. She's wanton; I am loth to say a Whore,
Though it be true.
Mel. Speak yet again, before mine anger grow
Up beyond throwing down; what are thy griefs?
Amint. By all our friendship, these.
Mel. What? am I tame?
After mine actions, shall the name of friend
Blot all our family, and strike the brand
Of Whore upon my Sister unreveng'd?
My shaking flesh be thou a Witness for me,
With what unwillingness I go to scourge
This Rayler, whom my folly hath call'd Friend;
I will not take thee basely; thy sword
Hangs near thy hand, draw it, that I may whip
Thy rashness to repentance; draw thy sword.