I have this night digg’d up a mandrake. Say you? And I am grown mad with ‘t. What ‘s the prodigy? Read there,—a sister damn’d: she ‘s loose
i’ the hilts; She’s grown a notorious strumpet. Speak lower. Lower!
Rogues do not whisper ‘t now, but seek to publish ‘t
Aloud. O, confusion seize her! She hath had most cunning bawds to serve her
turn, And more secure conveyances for lust
Than towns of garrison for service. Is ‘t possible?
Can this be certain? Rhubarb, O, for rhubarb
To purge this choler! Here ‘s the cursed day To prompt my memory; and here ‘t shall stick
Till of her bleeding heart I make a sponge To wipe it out. Why do you make yourself
So wild a tempest? Would I could be one,
That I might toss her palace ’bout her ears, Root up her goodly forests, blast her meads,
And lay her general territory as waste As she hath done her honours. Shall our blood,
The royal blood of Arragon and Castile, Be thus attainted? Apply desperate physic.
We must not now use balsamum, but fire, The smarting cupping-glass, for that ‘s the
mean To purge infected blood, such blood as hers.
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