Bravo. Did not your sweetheart tempt me to this deed,
And will you now betray me?
Luc. He my sweetheart!
I hate you both alike: that very word
Is enough to divorce thee from my pity
Past hope of reconcilement; for what mercy
Is to be had of two such prodigies?
Will you recant yet? speak, will you be honest?
Bravo. I think you'll force me to become your patient.
Luc. It is the way to heal thee of a sore,
Whose cure is supernatural. What art,
What mirror is sufficient to demonstrate
The foulness of thy guilt, whose leprous mind
Is but one stain seas cannot cleanse? Why, murder,
'Tis of all vices the most contrary
To every virtue and humanity;
For they intend the pleasure and delight,
But this the dissolution, of nature.
Bravo. She does begin to move me. [Aside.
Luc. Think of thy sin,
It is the heir-apparent unto hell.
And has so many and so ugly shapes,
His father Pluto and the furies hate
To look on their own birth: yet thou dar'st act
What they fear to suggest, and sell thy soul
To quick perdition.
Bravo. This has wak'd me more
Into a quicker insight of my evils,
That have impal'd me round with horrid shapes,
More various than the sev'ral forms of dreams,
That wait on Morpheus in his sleepy den.
Luc. Then, 'tis a fearful sin, and always labours
With the new birth of damn'd inventions
And horrid practices: for 'tis so fearful,
It dares not walk alone, and where it bides
There is no rest nor no security,
But a perpetual tempest of despair.
Bravo. All this I feel by sad experience.
Where have I been, where have I liv'd a stranger,
Exil'd from all good thoughts? Never till now
Did any beam of grace or good shine on me.
Luc. Besides, 'tis so abhorr'd of all that's good
That, when this monster lifts his cursed head
Above the earth, and wraps it in the clouds,
The sun flies back, as loth to stain his rays
With such a foul pollution; and night,
In emulation of so black a deed,
Puts on her darkest robe to cover it.