Enter Don John.
Jo. What magicall Illusion's this? 'tis she!
Confusion seize your charitable blindnesse!
Are you a prison visiter for this,
To cherish my dishonour for your merit?
Cat. My lord, I hope my Charity workes for your honour, Releiving him whose mercy spard your life.
Jo. But that I'me subiect to the law & know
My blowes are mortall, I would strike thee dead.
Ignoble & degenerate from Spanish bloud,
Darst thou maintaine this to be charity?
Thy strumpett itch & treason to my bed
Thou seekst to act in cherishing this villaine.
Cat. Saints be my witnesses you doe me wrong!
Jo. Thou robbst my honour.
Pike. You wound her honour and you robb yourselfe, And me and all good Christians, by this outrage.
Jo. Doe you prate, sir?
Pike. Sir, I may speake; my tongue's unshackled yet,
And, were my hands and feete so, on free ground
I would mayntayne the honour of this Lady
Against an Hoast of such ignoble husbands.
Jo. You are condemnd allready by the Law I make no doubt; and therefore speake your pleasure. —And here come those fore whom my rage is silent.