[65]:
Lost! I am lost! My fates have doom'd my death!
The more I strive, I love. The more I love,
The less I hope. I see my ruin certain....
I have even wearied heaven with pray'rs, dried up
The spring of my continual tears, even starv'd
My veins with continual fasts: what wit or art
Could counsel, I have practised; but alas!
I find all these but dreams, and old men's tales,
To fright unsteady youth. I am still the same,
Or I must speak or burst.
('T is a pity she is a whore, acte I.)
[66]:
Come, strumpet, famous whore!
Harlot, rare, notable harlot,
That with thy brazen face maintain'st thy sin,
Was there no man in Parma to be bawd
To your loose cunning whoredom else but I?
Must your hot itch and pleurisy of lust,
The heyday of your luxury, be fed
Up to a surfeit, and could none but I
Be pick'd out to be cloak to your close tricks,
Your belly-sports?—Now, I must be the dad
To all that gallimaufry that is stuff'd
In thy corrupted bastard-bearing womb?
Why, must I?
ANNABELLA.
Beastly man! why? 'Tis thy fate.
I sued not for thee.
SORANZO.
Tell me by whom.
ANNABELLA.