Cha. Stay, iust Iudge, may not what’s lost
By her owne fault, (for I am charitable,
And charge her not with many) be forgotten
In her faire life hereafter?
Roch. Neuer, Sir. [135]
The wrong that’s done to the chaste married bed,
Repentant teares can neuer expiate,
And be assured, to pardon such a sinne,
Is an offence as great as to commit it.
Cha. I may not then forgiue her.
Roch. Nor she hope it. [140]
Nor can she wish to liue no sunne shall rise,
But ere it set, shall shew her vgly lust
In a new shape, and euery on more horrid:
Nay, euen those prayers, which with such humble feruor
She seemes to send vp yonder, are beate backe, [145]
And all suites, which her penitance can proffer,
As soone as made, are with contempt throwne
Off all the courts of mercy.
He kills her.
Cha. Let her die then.
Better prepar’d I am. Sure I could not take her,
Nor she accuse her father, as a Iudge [150]
Partiall against her.
Beau. I approue his sentence,
And kisse the executioner; my lust
Is now run from me in that blood; in which
It was begot and nourished.
Roch. Is she dead then?
Cha. Yes, sir, this is her heart blood, is it not? [155]
I thinke it be.
Roch. And you haue kild here?