Worthy his high respect, and your owne soules!
Tam. Father!
Fri. I warrant thee, my dearest daughter,
He will not touch thee; think'st thou him a pagan?
His honor and his soule lies for thy safety. Exit.
Mont. Who shall remove the mountaine from my brest,[45]
Stand [in] the opening furnace of my thoughts,
And set fit out-cries for a soule in hell? Mont[surry] turnes a key.
For now it nothing fits my woes to speak,
But thunder, or to take into my throat