Gra. Cut not your days for't! am not I your mother?[94]
Ven. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud,
For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd.
Gra. A bawd! O name far loathsomer than hell!
Hip. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well.
Gra. I hate it.
Ven. Ah! is't possible, you powers on high,
That women should dissemble when they die?
Gra. Dissemble!
Ven. Did not the duke's son direct
A fellow of the worst[95] condition hither,
That did corrupt all that was good in thee?
Made thee uncivilly forget thyself,
And work our sister to his lust?
Gra. Who, I?
That had been monstrous. I defy that man
For any such intent! none lives so pure,
But shall be soil'd with slander. Good son, believe it not.
Ven. O, I'm in doubt,
Whether I am myself, or no—— [Aside.
Stay, let me look again upon this face.
Who shall be sav'd, when mothers have no grace?