Mont. For you, Vittoria, your public fault,
Join'd to th' condition of the present time,
Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity,
Such a corrupted trial have you made
Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd
No less an ominous fate than blazing stars
To princes. Hear your sentence: you are confin'd
Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd——
Flam. [Aside.] Who, I?
Mont. The Moor.
Flam. [Aside.] Oh, I am a sound man again.
Vit. A house of convertites! what 's that?
Mont. A house of penitent whores.
Vit. Do the noblemen in Rome
Erect it for their wives, that I am sent
To lodge there?
Fran. You must have patience.
Vit. I must first have vengeance!
I fain would know if you have your salvation
By patent, that you proceed thus.
Mont. Away with her,
Take her hence.