Then, to the strongest adjuration of the judges:
"To the point,
Find me but guilty, sever head from body,
We'll part good friends; I scorn to hold my life
At yours, or any man's entreaty, sir....
These are but feigned shadows of my evils:
Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils;
I am past such needless palsy. For your names
Of whore and murderess, they proceed from you,
As if a man should spit against the wind;
The filth returns in's face."[481]
Argument for argument: she has a parry for every blow: a parry and a thrust:
"But take you your course: it seems you have beggar'd me first,
And now would fain undo me. I have houses.
Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes:
Would those would make you charitable!"
Then, in a harsher voice:
"In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies;
The sport would be more noble."
They condemn her to be shut up in a house of convertites:
"V. A house of convertites! What's that?
Monticelso. A house of penitent whores.
V. Do the noblemen in Rome
Erect it for their wives, that I am sent
To lodge there?"[482]
The sarcasm comes home like a sword-thrust; then another behind it; then cries and curses. She will not bend, she will not weep. She goes off erect, bitter and more haughty than ever:
"I will not weep;
No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear
To fawn on your injustice: bear me hence
Unto this house of what's your mitigating title?
Mont. Of convertites.
V. It shall not be a house of convertites;
My mind shall make it honester to me
Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable
Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal."[483]