Mont. You know what whore is. Next the devil adultery,
Enters the devil murder.
Fran. Your unhappy husband
Is dead.
Vit. Oh, he 's a happy husband!
Now he owes nature nothing.
Fran. And by a vaulting engine.
Mont. An active plot; he jump'd into his grave.
Fran. What a prodigy was 't,
That from some two yards' height, a slender man
Should break his neck!
Mont. I' th' rushes!
Fran. And what's more,
Upon the instant lose all use of speech,
All vital motion, like a man had lain
Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance.
Mont. And look upon this creature was his wife!
She comes not like a widow; she comes arm'd
With scorn and impudence: is this a mourning-habit?
Vit. Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest,
I would have bespoke my mourning.