Fran. Signior,
You need not stand on 't much; pray, change your language.
Mont. Oh, for God's sake—Gentlewoman, your credit
Shall be more famous by it.
Lawyer. Well then, have at you.
Vit. I am at the mark, sir; I 'll give aim to you,
And tell you how near you shoot.
Lawyer. Most literated judges, please your lordships
So to connive your judgments to the view
Of this debauch'd and diversivolent woman;
Who such a black concatenation
Of mischief hath effected, that to extirp
The memory of 't, must be the consummation
Of her, and her projections——
Vit. What 's all this?
Lawyer. Hold your peace!
Exorbitant sins must have exulceration.
Vit. Surely, my lords, this lawyer here hath swallow'd
Some 'pothecaries' bills, or proclamations;
And now the hard and undigestible words
Come up, like stones we use give hawks for physic.
Why, this is Welsh to Latin.
Lawyer. My lords, the woman
Knows not her tropes, nor figures, nor is perfect
In the academic derivation
Of grammatical elocution.
Fran. Sir, your pains
Shall be well spar'd, and your deep eloquence
Be worthily applauded amongst thouse
Which understand you.