Æmi. O signior Lionel, you have undone me.
Lio. Who, I! Which way?
Æmi. The boy you brought my husband.
Lio. Ay, what of him?
Æmi. He is a witch, a thief,
That has stol'n all my honours. His smooth visage
Seem'd like a sea becalm'd or a safe harbour,
Where love might ride securely, but was found
A dangerous quick-sand, wherein are perish'd
My hopes and fortunes, by no art or engine
To be weigh'd up again.
Lio. Instruct me how?
Æmi. Teach me the way then, that I may relate
My own ill story with as great a boldness
As I did first conceive, and after act it.
What wicked error led my wand'ring thoughts
To gaze on his false beauty, that has prov'd
The fatal minute of my mind's first ruin?
Shall I be brief?
Lio. What else?
Æmi. How can I speak,
Or plead with hope, that have so bad a cause!