The Tragedy of
Faults where they apparant in you: Goe be safe
In your owne innocency.
Duch.
Oh bless'd comfort,
This deadly aire is purg'd. Exeunt.
Ferd.
Her guilt treads on
Hot burning cultures: Now Bosola,
How thrives our intelligence?
Bos.
(Sir) uncertainly,
'Tis rumour'd she hath had three bastards, but
By whom, we may go read i'th'Starres.
Ferd.
Why some
Hold opinion, all things are written there.
Bos.
Yes, if we could find Spectacles to read them,
I do suspect, there hath bin some Sorcery
Us'd on the Duchesse.
Ferd.
Sorcery, to what purpose?
Bos.
To make her doate on some desertles fellow,
She shames to acknowledge.
Ferd.
Can your faith, give way
To thinke there's powre in potions, or in Charmes,
To make us love, whether we will or no?
Bos.
Most certainely.
Ferd.
Away, these are meere gullcries, horred things
Invented by some cheating mounte-banckes
To abuse us: Do you thinke that hearbes, or charmes
Can force the will? Some trialls have bin made
In this foolish practise; but the ingredients
Were lenative poysons, such as are of force
To make the patient mad; and straight the witch
Sweares (by equivocation, they are in love.
The witch-craft lies in her rancke bood: this night
I will force confession from her: You told me
You had got (within these two dayes) a false key
Into her Bed-chamber.
Bos.
I have.
Ferd.
As I would wish.
Bos.
