Bel. Can this be possible?
Bon. No sismatick, reduc'd to the true faith,
Can more abhorre the Error he has left
Than I do mine. I do beleive thee chast
As the straight palme; as absolute from spots
As the immaculate Ermine, who does choose,
When he is hunted by the frozen Russe,
To meete the toyle ere he defile the white
Of his rich skin. What seas of teares will serve
To expiatt the scandall I have throwne
On holy Innocence?
Bel. Well, I forgive you;
But ere I seale your pardon I in[j]oyne
This as a pennance: you shall now declare
The author of your wrong report.
Bon. Your mother.
Bel. How! my mother?
Bon. No creature else Could have inducd me to such a madnes.
Bel. Defend me gracious virtue! is this man
Not desperate of remission, that without
Sense of compu[n]ction dares imagine lies
Soe horrible and godlesse? My disgrace
Was wrong sufficient to tempt mercie, yet
Cause twas my owne I pardond it; but this
Inferd toth piety of my guiltless mother
Stops all indulgence.
Bon. Will you not heare me out?
Bel. Your words will deafe me; I doe renounce my affection to you; when You can speake truth, protest you love agen. [Exit.
Bon. Contempt repaid with scorne; tis my desert; Poyson soone murders a love wounded heart.