Maria. Ay, by thy plots, by thy black stratagems:
Twelve moons have suffer’d change since I beheld
The lovèd presence of my dearest lord.
O thou far worse than death! he parts but soul
From a weak body; but thou soul from soul
Dissever’st, that which God’s own hand did knit; 60
Thou scant of honour, full of devilish wit!
Men. We’ll check your too-intemperate lavishness:
I can, and will.
Maria. What canst?
Men. Go to; in banishment thy husband dies.
Maria. He ever is at home that’s ever wise.
Men. You’st[563] ne’er meet more: reason should love control.
Maria. Not meet!
She that dear loves, her love’s still in her soul.
Men. You are but a woman, lady, you must yield. 70
Maria. O, save me, thou innated bashfulness,
Thou only ornament of woman’s modesty!
Men. Modesty! death, I’ll torment thee.