Orl. Then she’s a right strumpet. I never knew one of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money: taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves, do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher; she is the gallypot to which these drones fly: not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket in it, her money, her money.
Hip. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom gives warmth to no such snakes; when did you see her?
Orl. Not seventeen summers.
Hip. Is your hate so old?
Orl. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die ‘till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow.
Hip. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.
Orl. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world; I hate him for her: he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.
Hip. Nay, but Friscobaldo.
Orl. I detest her, I defy both, she’s not mine, she’s—
Hip. Hear her but speak.